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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30134640">Red Poppies</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/whorerormovie/pseuds/whorerormovie'>whorerormovie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Background Murder Mystery, Ballroom Dancing, Blood Drinking, Dimiclaude Big Bang (Fire Emblem), Gothic, M/M, Mind Control, Outdated views mostly in terms of medicine, Slow(ish) Burn, Supernatural Elements, Suspense, Vampires, masquerades, set approx 1850s</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 16:55:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>62,985</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30134640</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/whorerormovie/pseuds/whorerormovie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A recent doctor graduate, Claude Von Riegan is eager to make his mark on the world. He hopes that his research disproves the existence of vampires, and that vampirism is, in fact, a medical condition. To achieve this he travels to Fhirdiad, where he works alongside his assistants, Mercedes and Marianne. </p><p>During his stay he provides medical care to those of impoverished communities, but his work becomes significantly harder when victims of bloodloss turn up dead on the streets, their necks bitten. The town believes the residents of a derelict manor up on the hill are to blame. Vampires, they say, siblings under the name of Edelgard and Dimitri. </p><p>Claude has always considered himself a nonbeliever of folklore, but after becoming acquainted with both siblings, he discovers that truth is hard to find.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>62</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Dimiclaude Big Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I created this very self indulgent piece as part of the <a href="https://twitter.com/dimiclaudebb">Dimiclaude Big Bang project</a>, with my partner <a href="https://twitter.com/alciedoodles">Neyla</a>.</p><p>This fic is approx. 120k, all of which has been written but not fully edited. I will try to update weekly with each chapter ranging between 4k-9k to make it easier to read. Tags will be updated as the story progresses and warnings will be placed in the chapter notes. In regards to the corresponding illustrations, they will be uploaded with the corresponding chapters at a later time.  That being said, I want to thank my beta readers, <a href="https://twitter.com/mutigerritter">Olie</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/o_minium">Minium</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/HellaEmblem">Hella</a>. Thank you so much for the time you've taken to assist me with this, I appreciate your efforts.</p><p>You can find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/whorerormovie">twitter</a>, though for now, I hope you enjoy this.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is curiosity that drives him forward to extents no normal man would dare reach. In his pursuit for knowledge, he has managed to move to a new locale that reigns differently from his own, varying in language and customs. Simply said, he is an outsider with his tan skin.</p><p>Well spoken in his ways, he is a man that exhibits wit through unsettling conversations. </p><p>Claude von Riegan is no stranger to having his ideals challenged, because it is through challenges that debates occur and new information is learned. Science is a field of progress, fluid and changing, which is why he is a firm believer that the pen is mightier than the sword. A pen is subject to change, the words it writes can be crossed out or written elsewhere on the page, it can be used anywhere and by everyone. A sword on the other hand, cannot. What it cuts cannot be uncut, and it cannot be used everywhere or by everyone. A sword alludes strength, to be resistant, and when one chooses that over understanding, a person can cut others off. </p><p>This is why he finds himself here, thousands of miles away from his home, all to further his research on the creatures of folklore: vampires. After all, this is the area in which they are mostly habituated, or at least, this is where his research has led him to. Claude is not an arbitrary man, so it amuses him to know how blindly people believe in their existence without having concrete evidence. He, on the other hand, requires more persuasion. Stained glass is beautiful to look at but hard to see through, so he will break that glass if he must to peer through the other side into a world he does not know.</p><p>Through good intentions, he hopes to challenge faith with reason during his stay here. To prove that one cannot be led blindly into fear just because it is easier to accept than to ask questions, and to prove once and for all that vampires belong in the fictional pages of folklore. </p><p>What exactly is there to be afraid of? What makes vampires so dangerous? He’s heard talk but nothing that he, as a conteur, will retell. He deems that nothing that’s said on the streets adds to the frightful connotation of their breed; it’s all hearsay. The answers he seeks need to be sought elsewhere, so he looks for them in dry ink. </p><p>Elden texts written by men before him, and dare he say that the words are coupled under a genre of romanticized fiction. Claude does not know how to interpret these findings, if mere fanatical observations or to just take them at face value. The writing goes in detail about how vampires feed on the blood of humans: it is a life source to them and to attain it they do so from the carotid artery. But why there specifically when it is proven that humans, or any lifeform with a blood supply, will bleed from nearly anywhere if the puncture is chasmic? These unknowns plant the seeds of doubt within, and with time these seeds have cultivated him into a skeptical man. </p><p>From its corner he flips the page, a sound so crisp that it can be heard over the turning of wheels ‘pon cobblestone. Rainfall hydrates their path as it settles in the crooks of the stones, squelching beneath the carriage’s weight as it’s run over. That’s the thing about this city: it rains quite often, so often that clouds of gray pervade the skies above. Perhaps it is the lack of sunlight that makes amicable conditions for the vampires, or in the very least, contributes to everyone’s paleness. </p><p>He misses the sun. The sun is a severed fragment of his home: something to be taken and seen anywhere so that he is reminded of where he came, and all that he left behind. His home country is hot and its people hotter. When the heat grew so intense that it turned his pigment darker, and him with his beautiful green eyes, his looks are all the more striking. Achieving perfection in the balance of his body. His outsides, simply put, is a reflection of his insides, and what are his insides if not systems working in synergy to achieve the perfect balance, homeostasis. </p><p>Vampires, if they exist, are not balanced. Blood alone cannot provide a humanoid body with the nutrients it requires. If the readings are a thing to go on, they are sanguine, with beautiful skin and tinted cheeks, as a result of too much blood. The humoral theory is not without fault but is the most concrete theory that exists at the moment. </p><p>These vampires, they look human and act like humans, therefore, the same science that applies to humans apply to them, because they are human. They just have an ailment that causes them to believe otherwise, to drink another human’s blood is nothing short of a sickness. There is a term for it: vampirism.</p><p>Claude inhales, the rain from prior making the air aromatic. A quaint humidity that comes with a subtle taste and curls the ends of his combed hair sweetly.</p><p>“Ya’ actually believe in that crap?”</p><p>Claude looks up with mild curiosity. With a perk raise of a singular brow he shuts his book by pressing both sides closed with a hand. The noise that results from that signals a spark of interest toward the conversation. </p><p>“I take it you don’t?” Claude asks casually, foregoing the question originally intended for him. </p><p>He sets the book aside to occupy the empty space beside himself. Its thick black cover lacks luster save for the carved crimson letters that read Vampyres. Simplicity at its finest.</p><p>Claude curves one of his legs to rest atop the other. Ankle to knee, he rests his elbow against the carriage’s door, his hand supporting his head when he leans on it.</p><p>“Don’t hold back on me now sweet driver, not when you’ve riled my curiosity to such extents.”</p><p>Not even the tumultuous road can stifle the laughter of the driver, with pearly whites mischievous as they peer through the opening of lips whence they parted in a smile. The nameless driver is loud in how he draws attention, with that and his light blue hair neatly trimmed to rest beneath a top hat. </p><p>“Now wha’ interest does a refined guy such as yerself have in what an ol’ bloke like me has to say, aye?” The driver glances back. The blue of his eye is icy, and Claude begins to feel its chill even through such relative distance. The cold becomes a layer of frost that extends over his neck, freezing the premature sentences housed in his larynx.</p><p>Claude clears his voice before responding, “And exactly under what assumptions are you on that make you believe that I’m a refined man?” Is it the difference in which they fashion their words? Or perhaps it’s all in the way they represent their profession, with Claude’s being more scholarly and the driver’s more manual.</p><p>“You underestimate how fast words travel ‘round ‘ere. It’s not often one tends ta’ hear about a doc’tah comin’ from fars away ta’ lend his services.” A crack of the reins makes the horses stall long enough for another carriage to cross on the intersection. From here, he witnessed the opposing driver, an emaciated figure with sunken eyes and dark hair. He styles himself darkly to match his ghastly appearance, the black of his clothes stretching over the lanky appendages, and offsetted in color only by the white of his sickly flesh. </p><p>The color of those eyes, abnormally yellow, are hypnotizing in their own right. Claude’s mouth falls agape, astounded, as his hand softly departs from his face. The man on the other carriage continues his throttle, never once becoming aware of Claude’s existence. </p><p>This man, whoever he may be, matches every description of a vampire he’s ever read, down to the high carved cheekbones.</p><p>“Honestly yer just as mad as the lot of ‘em for believin’ in all that shite, actually, I think yer quite mad comin ‘ere of all places.” The driver continues his comments at his client’s expense, not that the client ever put much sense to drivel to begin with. </p><p>“Ouch.” The doctor feigns injury by placing a hand to his chest. “You wound me good sir, I don’t think my ego will ever recover from such a trifle.” Claude leans forward then, using that same hand that once laid on his chest to grapple at his driver’s shoulder, pulling him back just slightly as his ingenious mind gets the best of him.</p><p>“Lucky for you I know just the way that you can make it up to me.” Before the driver could interject Claude continued with his talk. “You know these streets better than I, better than most, you’re on them every day, it's how you make your living. You see things, hear things that most don’t, you’re a well of knowledge my friend.” Their carriage begins to move again, the horses hooves moving at a lax pace, mindful of pedestrians in this transited burrough. “Say do you know anything about that macabre fella that passed us by just a few moments ago? Quite the dead man walking I’d say!” </p><p>Claude would like to see first hand if this dead man is capable of speaking.</p><p>“Dead man walkin’? Why ya’ really got a bunch of rocks rattlin’ for brains!” He shakes Claude off by jerking his shoulder with one decisive movement. “That ain’t no vampire ya halfwit, that there is a dog on a leash. Name’s Hubert, lady Edelgard’s loyal hound.”</p><p>Lady Edelgard? That name is of no significance to him. There is no face that he can relate the name to. Then again, he is a newcomer in this town, having only migrated here from overseas a month ago.</p><p>“Who is Lady Edelgard?” He asks, leaning back onto the comforting embrace of the seat. </p><p>A huff and puff from his very animated companion. He spits onto the streets, letting his saliva polish the stone below. “A mistress who lives in a manor up the hill alongside her bru’tha. Residents believe that they’re vampires. Load of shite I’d say. All these killins messin’ with people’s heads, ‘ave em thinkin’ it’s vampires. People goin’ as far as unburyin’ the dead, burnin’ their ‘earts and eatin’ the ashes thinkin’ it’s gonna help against the white plague.” </p><p>The odious details described are unprecedented in their nature. These texts refer to coffins and its link to the undead, but mentions of desecrating burial have gone unmentioned. “How interesting.” Claude speaks in a murmur, moreso for himself than for the estranged ears of the ryder, but nevertheless, the ryder caught word of his customer’s whispers. </p><p>“Interestin!?” The ryder shouts, “If I was you I’d stop lookin’ into this before ya’ dig yourself a hole ya can’t get out of.” Quite ominous words that ultimately failed to hinder the passenger’s curiosity. </p><p>“Worried for my safety are you? I thought you didn’t believe in vampires. Could it be a change of heart?” Claude crosses his arms and awaits for an answer that will no doubt be as dynamic as the sayer’s appearance.</p><p>“I don't believe in ‘em but many do, and if someone from that paranoid lot hear ya’ askin’ the wrong questions they gon’ start makin’ assumptions, and once they suspect yer one of ‘em...” He brings his thumb to the neck and begins to move it laterally to the other side, to be released onward unto death, devoid of life, quietus.</p><p>“So play yer cards right because no you means one less customer for me.” </p><p>That gets a laugh out of the both of them.</p><p>“May I have the name of the man who has bequeathed upon me such transformative words?” Claude turns his head to sightsee, watching as the visuals become rougher. Over populated streets, the only thing to match the amount of bodies is the trash littering the sidewalks. The buildings are of poor condition, mismanaged and on the border of collapse, but the people here make do because there’s no other alternative.</p><p>“Caspar von Bergliez at yer service!” Caspar. Somehow the name seems fitting.</p><p>“You are a flash fellow, Caspar, you are able to see what irrationality does to people. When logic fades, it is easier for fear to replace it. When there are no answers, we make up our own, even if it is not true, because not knowing is worse than believing a lie.” Just as he says that, they pass a newspaper seller, a young boy on a soap box waving his merchandise and yelling snippets of the morning news. He spots a drawing of a man huddled over a woman, mouth to her neck as she lays unresponsive upon the bedding. </p><p>“Fear spreads like any other plague.” He comments, not hiding his disappointment with the fearmongering on the front page. </p><p>“Hm?” Caspar’s curiosity conveyed in a verbal hum. “Yer talkin’ ‘bout vampires right then? I thought ya’ believed in ‘em.” He sounds mildly surprised at that. Claude, in rebuttal, gathered the book on his arm, balancing out its weight on the hard spine, chipped and flimsy from years of utilization. </p><p>The doctor laughs. “You saw me read a book about vampires and assumed my faith in their existence?” He then sets the book on his lap and begins to flip the pages idly, his eyes scantily processing the illustrations. “To answer your question, sir, I do not believe in vampires. I’m researching them to know what to disprove, to create a hypothesis to clear their riddling existence.” He stops on a particular page with a full-page illustration. What is presented to him is a vampire feeding on the neck of a helpless maiden. The blood, saturated in the blackest of inks, drips down the side of his mouth in linear harsh strokes. It’s frenzied, carnivorous, as blood both stains the dress and her unresponsive body. No one is ever panicked in these pictures; there is never fear, never a struggle in those painted eyes, just a quiet sense of resignation. Perhaps these vampires, when biting, release an anesthetic into the bloodstream to subdue their victims.</p><p>“Vampires, as we know of them, are not real. However, people who drink blood are. There is no mystifying power, no holy water that repels them, they are merely humans who often derive sexual gratification upon drinking a short supply.” It is a sickness of the mind. Inherently, blood should not be appetizing, but these blood drinkers are living and their bodies cannot be sustained on blood alone. They are human even when they themselves believe otherwise. </p><p>In his studies, Claude can account for many things. For example their sickly appearance can be attributed to contracting tuberculosis. It transforms the user entirely, the weight loss makes them lethargic and frail in their outward appearance. The skin pallish with its lackluster tints, sickly, as the flesh clings to their sullen bones desperately, hollowed and unnerving. </p><p>Sunlight, crosses and holy water, garlic and salt, all things meant to render vampires inept, Claude believes that it is just them shunning their humanity. Sunlight is needed to make the crops grow, and in term feed the population. A vampire’s food is not conventional: it tastes of liquid iron and it is crimson. Humans need daylight to wander, to socialize, to sequence the days apart. Vampires do not need to tell the days apart for they believe they are immortal. Time, simply put, is nothing to them. That being said, garlic and salt are additives to food, adding zest to meals, but with blood there is no reason to use them. The palate is averse to anything that’s not characterized by blood. Then, last but not least, the cross and holy water, all tying in to religion. Shunning the gods, never devout to the beings that have declared their kind as demonic. </p><p>Shunning, to hate anything that is familiar. Conditioned to be repulsed by what others find benign. He doesn’t know what leads to this, doesn’t know what drives someone to drink upon another, to engage in this form of cannibalism. But try he may to get these truths revealed to him, to prove once and for all that there is no brazen power behind these people, only delusions. </p><p>“I will prove the tabloids wrong. I will render their existence to mere tales with my research. That is my focus in all this.” The doctor speaks with a finality to his tone. He closes the book yet again once they reach the infirmary. At the entrance, he spots two of the nurses, no doubt waiting for him to arrive so that they can conduct the day’s proceedings. </p><p>Their stop had to be done in the middle of the road, for there is no room elsewhere to park the coach. The streets are presently crowded with other carriages. The people, too, bombard the streets and sidewalks, many of them men trying to find work, and the women, rocking their crying infant, their worries seeing no end in sight. </p><p>“Excuse me a moment, Caspar.” Claude dismisses himself prior to stepping out of the vehicle, leaving the door open for two upcoming passengers.</p><p>“Good morning ladies, I apologize if I’ve kept you waiting long. I had to ensure that I looked my best before greeting the both of you.” As customary, he bows in their presence, with something as subtle as tipping his head. With his arms, he directs the pair of girls to the carriage, allowing them to get a headstart as he gathers their things. He grabs the two medicinal kits by the handles, one being heavier than the other, since one is stacked with tools and the other with medication.</p><p>“Oh, Dr. Riegan.” It is Mercedes who starts off. Her soft-spoken voice is a reprieve to the pained groans he’s accustomed to hearing in a day’s work. “I take it you’re having a good morning?” she asks, turning her head. From her profile, he can see the aegean hue of her iris, and how deeper the color looks when the eye is framed by thick and dark lashes. </p><p>“Always a good morning when I am honored by your presence, my fair maiden.” His answer just earns him a laugh, one that hides behind an open palm. “Oh you.” She says in the sweetest of chastises. </p><p>“Dr. Riegan, it would be in your best interest to remain proper, lest you want another talking to from lady Manuela.” Marianne is a much more soft-spoken aide, but nevertheless, her words spread doom and gloom ever so often. Her sad eyes cast a shadow, adding an upsetting color to her ghostly allure. Poor woman is pale as a ghost. The only thing of vibrance is the blue of her hair, a crown of melancholy perched upon her pretty head.</p><p>“Marianne.” He sounds scandalized. “If anyone deserves a talking to, it’s her! Why, I felt like a piece of meat served on a silver platter for her to ogle at when she was giving me one of her talks.” </p><p>The ladies began to mount the carriage. Marianne, with her grip on the open door and one heel inside the compartment, looked back at Claude with a forlorn expression. Chapped lips part to speak, vocal cords strumming a meek sentence. “You’d bad-mouth a woman while she’s not around to defend herself? For shame Dr. Riegan.” He noticed the faintest of smiles once she boarded inside the carriage. </p><p>“That’s right Dr. Riegan, shame on you.” Mercedes chimes in with a giggle of her own. Before he’s able to get too close Mercedes shuts the door on him, leaving him to remain outside with a handful of supplies. She waves at him, her wrist a slight gesticulation of a back and forth movement. A slight frown forms at his lips seeing that there’s no additional room for him, blame the bulging frame of their dress skirts. “Feeling quite chipper this morning aren’t we ladies.” He comments with an eased demeanor. Taking the hint, he sets the items on the top railing and proceeds to take his seat next to the coachmaster. It’s a tight fit, but the driver’s box is able to maintain their combined weight. </p><p>“Quite the ladies man ain’t cha.” Came a comment at his side, the giggles at the back of them answered his failure.</p><p>Defeated, Claude commented to get a move on. There is no exact destination in place, no address that they must account for, they merely show up to the most impoverished areas and provide health services to those that require it most. He is not an independent doctor, he works in accordance with a clinic and through the clinic he is provided with the resources, such as personnel and medicine so that he can provide care to those who do not seek it. His workplace understands that those of lower class play a valuable role in society and that they cannot be mismanaged due to a lack of wealth. </p><p>His stay in this city has not been long but even so, he’s come to adjust quickly. It is all about adaptation and thankfully the staff have facilitated the process for him. Everyone has been kind, and most importantly, have given him his space. Claude von Riegan is a mystery. No one knows anything about him. Nothing that matters at least. A name is all he gives. The rest is a blank card that can be filled with presumptions. In his youth, he’d been considered an outsider among his own people, not for his ideals, not for his personality, but simply for his heritage.</p><p>If they would not judge him for his character, then he will give them no reason to judge at all. </p><p>The carriage begins to slow with the length of the ride. Supporting the mass of four passengers proves to be no easy feat for the two horses in front. Nevertheless, they persist through the uneven terrain. The wood of the wheels wobble over the interstices of cobblestone, making the carriage shake as it trudgens on the busy road. </p><p>“My seat feels a bit uncomfortable.” Mercedes says with an unusual strain to her voice. He turns his head only to find the short haired woman moving about, hands shifting underneath herself, feeling at the seat underneath for the cause. The nurse’s expression shifts to that of mild surprise, brows raising in tangent with her opening mouth, “oh,” she gasps out, “a book!” The young woman holds it out triumphantly with both hands. Marianne, ever curious, leans forward to read its title. </p><p>“It’s about vampires.” At the revelation, Mercedes’ expression only gleamed and began to hold the book close to her chest. </p><p>“How fascinating! I just love vampires, I find their stories to be quite riveting.” At her confession the driver turns, looking dumbfoundedly at her, then at Claude, in which Claude meets his gaze, and then they both turn to look back at her again, and then at each other one final time. </p><p>“Bloody ‘ell people’s minds have gone ta shite.” Caspar mutters before cracking the reigns.</p><p>Mercedes is quite the holy woman, so in hindsight it shouldn't be surprising that she believes in demons and other creatures of the occult. After all, it is the holy prowess that dispels such beings. </p><p>And as if Marianne read his mind, she raised the very same question that intrigued him. “Are you not afraid of vampires, Mercedes?” </p><p>At the inquiry Mercedes’ lips came to be a firm and taut line, pensive as she thinks of the appropriate words to best convey her feelings. She’s the type of woman whose eloquent words feel like the prick of a thorn at times. An edge of precision, her emotions and thoughts, they are her own and she will present them as a flower with thorns. </p><p>“Hm, that’s a good question. I suppose that I’m not, the world is scary enough as it is without the paranormal, but what can I say, I just find it quite fascinating. Don’t you think it’s interesting how much humans fear them when humans are just as capable of being bad? Now that I mention it, that would be a pretty interesting topic for the club!” </p><p>“You mean that supernatural club that you’re part of?” Marianne chimed in. She looks awfully unimpressed at the answer given.</p><p>With a nod, a flurry of beige locks move from behind the ears, framing her face with it’s short cut. “Correct. The Ghost Club is always welcoming new members if it catches your interest.” The adhesive hold on the book laxens, following the gesture, she settles the book on her lap and begins to flip the pages. </p><p>The sounds of curling sheets the only thing filling the verbal silence. Marianne’s dainty finger points at an illustration, a frown evident as it marred her features. Mercedes in rebuttal offers a quaint smile, her own finger underlining some texts. Anything exchanged after that is just whispers shared between them, alongside expressions of mutual disgust which in turn is countered with exuberant interest. </p><p>“If I may,” Claude begins to interject, “Could I hope to one day drop by your club? I want to witness the happenings at your ghostly gatherings first hand, it might aid in my research.” Mercedes took Claude's interest in good faith.</p><p>“How delightful! Why you’d fit right in with that brilliant mind of yours, Dr. Riegan.”</p><p>“So, milady, have you partaken in any rendezvous ghost hunts as of late?”</p><p>“Oh heavens, nothing of the sort. Spiritualism and science can have a hard time coexisting, and it’s only made harder by charlatans trying to make a pretty penny from people’s beliefs. We simply try to expose these frauds, and in doing so, debunk the phenomena they profit from. Though, we don’t always succeed. Take vampires, for example, we’ve yet to come up with something credible.” </p><p>No more convincing was needed after that, because like him, they too were debunking the paranormal, though one thing remains and it must leave his chest by tonight or else the need won’t let him sleep for the night. “A woman of faith and a woman of science,” he begins, “I wonder where else your faith lies. To which end will you chase your convictions? I’m dying to know because as you’ve said, spiritualism and science don’t always coexist.” The things he’s said, he knows that to the ears it may sound unfitting. He’s putting her to the question, putting her on the spot to see if she jumps towards heaven or leaps towards the ghosts.</p><p>Promptly, she shuts the book. She does not appear angry, but if Claude knows one thing, it’s that expressions are often misleading. He should know, since he’s a master at it, so good that he even deceives himself at times. “There are things that we see and have no explanation on how they come to be. We may have an answer in the future or we may never know. In those instances where nothing makes sense, I believe in a higher power, and that being gives it sense. It’s comforting to have something to fall back on when it feels like the world is collapsing at your feet. I too believe in science, because I too am a rational woman. I am not a blind believer, and just like you I try to find answers, but when I cannot find the answers I seek, I ask for someone who can. Spiritualism and science, it’s hard to make them coexist, but not impossible.”</p><p>That was more of an answer than he’d ever hope to receive, and for that he is grateful. When Mercedes smiles at him, he smiles back, though he can’t attribute as to why he would. Her smile is just that contagious, it seems.</p><p>Claude turns to look at the road ahead and comes to notice how much the surrounding view has changed. The buildings in comparison seem to be deteriorated, and the road in even worse conditions. Potholes consume the streets and sidewalks. A conglomerate of left over debris and garbage. This portion of the city reeks; all the sewage goes to the lower communities and is left there. There is a lack of government supervision. The political entities are negligent to the poorer folks, deaf to their cries and blind to the conditions that they themselves have subjected their people to.</p><p>The more their travels persist, the more the tight-knit buildings become fading. From the carriage he saw multiple faces looking down at him from the windows, children left at home with no education to pursue and no job to maintain. These are trying times, and he knows when the clothes he sees perched on the clothesline are slim to none. Little else to wear, having to reuse the same clothes again and again until it’s worn out and frayed.</p><p>They deviate from the path, going instead into less solid territory. Rock replaced by dirt, one path transitions into the other as the surrounding area becomes rural. A city’s influence finds itself lacking here when the houses aren’t as close together and it’s more open field. That being said, it is no less sad. The houses they see are rundown: mold has eaten away at the walls, their dark stains permeating until it leaves a deplorable color upon the estates. Trash is everywhere, and it is not the common folk’s trash, this here is imported from elsewhere, kept out of sight. </p><p>A few blades of grass sprout here and there but nothing that’s considered plentiful. The land here is barren with its gifts. </p><p>“Perhaps we should exit the carriage, the horses are having a difficult time navigating the terrain.” Marianne, because of course it would be her, she is one to think about the animals before herself. Although he prides in her caring heart, this is something that he cannot agree upon. </p><p>“My dear, please understand that I cannot and will not risk your health. Have you wondered what the skirt of your dress might contract as you walk these lands? I’ll answer that for you, tuberculosis. And frankly, I rather it be the horses than you. Please understand that I do not wish to place you, or Mercedes, in more harm than you are already assumed to be.” As a practitioner, he must place the well being of others first and foremost. It is the oath he took, and his duty as a licensed professional. But above all, it is his dedication to mankind’s preservation; he wants to ensure that everyone lives long and fruitful lives. The lives of humans are above that of animals, and Marianne may not agree—in fact, he knows she does not agree based on her expression—but there are no further comments made to lengthen the argument. </p><p>Their trip reaches an end once they spot a culmination of buildings: another stretch of a town, ran down, just on the other side of labored nothingness. Buildings of two stories clumped together, sharing the same thin walls to convey the feeling of togetherness. A community of the poorer folk, less endowed than their first class oppositors. </p><p>He spots an elderly man huddled over a fallen barrel. The barrel itself hollowed out and empty, the only thing meant to be now is a seat for the fellow. His back is hunched against a wall, and on the other side of him a flight of stairs that leads to the entrance of a home that Claude only assumes is his. Despite the heavy layers of clothing, the man underneath appears emaciated, as if made of skin and bone. The flesh stretched over the cheek bone, it is pulled taut and thinly, the veins that supply blood optically visible. </p><p>A cough leaves the man, then another and then another, so on and so forth until those in the carriage begin to worry. It is Mercedes who opens the door of the carriage to pull herself out, lifting the hem of her dress to facilitate walking. Marianne follows suit shortly afterwards. Troubled she asks, “Sir, are you well?” It is clear to everyone that he is not well but a verbal response is all she sought. The man is too weak to give an answer, either that or the cough has worn him out. </p><p>“Thank you for your services Caspar but it seems that this is as far as we'll go for today,” Claude pulls out his wallet from his coat pocket and hands the driver enough currency to cover the services. Putting the item back in the coat pocket, he hears, “Wha’ time ya’ want me ta’ return?” but the doctor shakes his head from side to side, declining the offer. </p><p>“That won’t be necessary, we won’t know when the work will be done until it’s done. We’ll find other means to return I assure you.”</p><p>“Bullocks! Ain’t nobody comin’ all the way out ‘ere and ain’t nobody goin’ all the way out there I guarantee ya! Ya know how hard it is ta’ find good payin customers? I’ll be back before supper nao scoot before I start chargin’ ya extra fo’ creasin ma’ seat.” It’s hard to get a word in when Caspar speaks, but the things he says are within reason. The folk here don’t have the means or income to afford a carriage, even less horses for the ride. </p><p>Farewells are to be exchanged by the lock of hands. Caspar spits on his palm, the wad of saliva spreading, causing the grime on his skin to liquify. He puts his hand out expecting Claude to deliver on his end of the bargain. Disgusted, Claude accedes and embraces the hand with meek strength. Caspar does not relinquish his hold; he continues to grip tighter until he feels his counterpart put the same amount of effort in, so Claude plays the part and brings out his strength. A firm handshake settles their deal to meet once more in the evening time. With that, the practitioner bid his farewell and gathered their things from the top of the carriage. </p><p>Now they must work.</p><p>Claude wipes his hand on his coat before making his way over to the delicate man, squatting as he does to find themselves at a similar height. Not the proper pants for this motion. The fabric grows tighter around his flexing thighs and his ankles begin to burn as they support his weight. </p><p>“Sir I need you to look at me.” The man wordlessly follows his words. His sunken features are pitiful looking when compared to the youthful and healthy appearance of said Riegan. The practitioner brings his finger into view, holding it up in front of the other male with clear instructions, “follow my finger with your eyes only, do not move your head.” Claude moves his finger right to left then left to right, slow in his movements to facilitate the tracking. The sick citizen followed as best he could but his reflexes were delayed, and at one point he lost focus altogether when he began coughing. So far he’s failed the first assessment. At this result Claude pressed both his index and middle finger against the man’s neck, feeling for a pulse. It took some adjustment but after pressing deep into the artery, he felt the most fleeting jump upon his fingers. It’s faint, but he hears it pulsating at a fast constant.</p><p>The older man winces in pain when he coughs. His hand comes around his side to clutch at his ribs. The constant coughing and the expansion of the chest might cause some tender ache.</p><p>A woman steps out from one of the buildings, holding an infant on her steady arms, nursing the child back and forth. “He’s been like this for about three days now and he only seems to be getting worse. Poor guy.” She shows concern, but that fuse is blown short once her other children start screaming from behind the door. She bellowed at them to shut up, such a blistering sound that it even caught the gentleman’s alertness for a few moments.</p><p>“Is he a family member of yours?” Asks Marianne, offering to carry the infant by holding out her arms. The mother took the offer and handed her child over. Once her arms were free, she closed the door behind her for more privacy. “No, he is not, but I know that he’s been wandering the streets for quite a bit after he lost his job. We try to look after our own here but times have been tough, there’s isn't enough to go around and I guess he just fell through the cracks just as many of us have.” </p><p>No shelter. No food. Challenges facing this man that Claude knows he cannot aid in. He can, however, assist with the more immediate threat. Mercedes places the back of her hand upon the patient’s forehead, judging the warmth with a strict “no fever.” A good sign, but he still needs to know more before confidently administering a prescription. </p><p>His short haired nurse brought her arm to the patient’s shoulder, subtly adding force to press the gentleman’s back straight against the wall. “Is it okay if we lift up your shirt? We need to further assess you.” She asks. Once they gained approval with a nod, Claude untucked the shirt from his pants and began to lift. He notes no discoloration, no bruising, nothing seems missing or out of place. The man is skinny, yes, but not overly so like other cases he’s seen. He continues with his physical assessment while Mercedes proceeds with more questions, all the while Marianne takes the child and mother inside.</p><p>No night sweats, no blood when coughing, no fevers, which leads Claude to believe that it’s not tuberculosis. If he were to surmise, not eating has made his body weak, which made him susceptible to a cold. The man is fortunate that it is not worse. Nonetheless, that does not mean that his condition may not worsen with time. The air here is unclean, and with it being so unclean means that many pollutants linger in the air: pollutants that may bring about life ending ailments for the elder. </p><p>Claude reaches for his medicinal kit, opening it up and reaching for Laudanum. It comes in a thick, clear glass bottle, its insides coated with a brown tincture. “I’m going to give you medicine that should help with your cough. The taste is unpleasant but bear with me it will only be a couple of drops.” The patient opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue so Claude may use the dropper to administer the medicine. Due to its addictive properties, he will administer a calculated amount of twenty-five drops. The patient coughs around the twelfth drop, sputtering some of the contents out, and, once settled, Claude continues where he left off. “I know that it’s hard to get access to the care that you need but I will try to follow up and make sure that you are recuperating. If you feel as if you are worsening, I recommend that you attend your nearest place of care if able.”</p><p>Claude begins to lock his things away, trying to keep things organized for whoever his next patient might be. </p><p>Mercedes on the other hand clasps her hand in prayer, closing her eyes and tipping her head in worship. She prays for everyone whether they believe in a higher power or not. To some it grants hope, to others it dwindles their faith in medicine. </p><p>Just then Marianne opens the door, her utterance the remains of a storm. “Dr. Riegan, your assistance is required here as well.” Spoken fast like lightning, it flashes bright and blue, like the streaks of her hair forming a braid. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Very important things to keep in mind of in this chapter: there's description of a corpse, there is also a scene involving public outrage and the police is involved which leads to violence. So if either is a touchy subject, this warning is for you. </p><p>Mind control is also present in this chapter though it is very mild.</p><p>That being said, I hope you enjoy this week's chapter.</p><p>You can find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/whorerormovie">twitter</a>, though for now, I hope you enjoy this.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This is how the days play out for them, they assist one person, and then another one needs care, and then someone else and that someone knows another person too. It branches until the amount of patients exceeds their staff of three. It’s laborious work, and when the strain isn’t purely physical, the mental and emotional strain adds to it too. Many are sick, and yet there is not enough time, personnel or supplies to assist everyone who needs it. It breaks his beating heart but this is the reality of things. He realizes that this is beyond his measures and that this is all acquainted with politics; he’s merely doing his best to make a bad situation bearable. </p><p>With the passing days, his work takes the forefront and his research is derailed. Days turn to weeks and time becomes very much like sand: it just slips through his fingers, until he knows not what has become of it. He’s received invitations from Mercedes to attend the ghost club meetings but working late nights had bid him unable. His job will always take precedence over what he truly wants. He is entirely too self-sacrificing in that sense. </p><p>It takes a murder to make him wonder the worth of his sacrifice. What will all his hard work amount to if his patients come to die at the hands of another? </p><p>The murder had taken place last night according to the officer. A young woman had been the victim, and according to the official statement she died of a hemorrhage caused by puncture wounds to the neck. From where he stands he can see the splattering of blood clinging to the nearby walls. A mad artist’s illustration of aggression, the story it entails is a grim one. Just down below he sees the victim’s arm lying lifeless on the ground. Pale, subtle blue undertones as the blood is now deoxygenated, the body already begins to decay. </p><p>His mouth goes dry at the reveal; the smell that enters his body is one of decomposition. The wretched scent, it is one of death and it lingers in the poor air. The sky is gray, much like it always is, and it desaturates the block and its people, making it all lifeless, just like the bloodied corpse a mere feet away. </p><p>Mercedes gets down on her knees, kneeling deep on the cobblestone that will undoubtedly bruise her skin. Stone is sturdy, unkind to soft things, especially soft natured people such as her. Her hands clasped together in a motion of prayer, and the tipping of her head came henceforth. Claude is not a religious person, more so now in these moments when good people suffer and wicked people still roam the earth. Divine justice, just what does it mean and who does it apply to? As far as he can tell, it applies to no one that actually deserves punishment for their misdeeds. He thinks that, and yet, as he watches Mercedes’ lips move in a silent invoke, he is astounded to see rain shed from the skies. It is as if it too wept over a loss: a young soul undeserving of such a fate. </p><p>The rain feels like holy water cleansing them of their sin.</p><p>Drop by drop it takes away the blood from the walls, the floor and the victim, washing away the slurry of crimson water where it would then spread to the streets. It surrounds the soles of his shoes and bathes Mercedes’ dress with it, diluting it in rosetta. Drops of rain fall on Mercedes like tear drops, turning her into a grieving angel. </p><p>Claude witnesses these happenings and believes that maybe -<i>just maybe</i>- someone, or something, is listening to the pleading of the forgotten.</p><p>“Please sir, I beseech you! You must allow us passage.” Claude tries to rationalize with the police officer to let them enter the territory. This is a particularly rough patch of town, and to put it mildly, there are many sick people who will, in one way or another, end up dead (like the victim) without medical intervention. He points to himself and then the two girls to validate their numbers. “We’re medics and the people here are in desperate need. Please sir we are just trying to do our jobs.” A job is an easy thing to call it but it’s more than that: it’s an oath, one that binds him to every living person. </p><p>Claude is then shoved by the officer, hand to shoulder, pushed on his arse where the puddle springs high upon his falling. If his clothes were wet before, they’re soaked now. The water makes the fabric heavy, the clothes more adhesive and harder to move in. He puts his body weight on his arms to help him resurface, and this is when he finds Marianne at his side, assisting him to his feet despite getting dirty herself. They meet the officer’s scowl with impotence, uncertain of what they may have done to instigate such a reaction. “Listen, the only medic that’s getting through to ‘ere is a pathologist and you certainly don’t look the part. Now bugger off! We’ve got a job to do here as well.” The officer appears agitated, maybe from working the crowd, or it perhaps from the stress of having a murderer on the loose. Still, that’s no excuse to get physical, and Claude will have him know on the matter. </p><p>When he opens his mouth to voice his disapproval, he sees that the officer’s hand goes to the patton tucked within his waistband. Claude stops short of both distance and words when he steps forward in front of Mercedes and Marianne, arms stretched outwards to cover more surface area. He could have walked away, since to live another day is his mentality, but at the same time, he’d hate to see someone else get hurt because he placed them in the predicament. He clenches his jaw in preparation for a blow that never comes. The officer merely holds up the patton in the air, hand upon the leather grip. Just then more policemen come from the alleyways, sporting similar weapons. They form a barricade and in doing so, set up specific parameters on where civilians need and needn't be. </p><p>“For the last time, this is an active crime scene. We are conducting an investigation and require that everyone leave the premises!” The officer goes red in the face as he bellows to everyone within the vicinity, not just Claude. Gauging at body language, the officer is searching for imperfections: something that doesn’t belong in hopes that it may lead to a culprit -whether guilty or not. With tensions at an all time high, he continues, “Anyone who forces our hand will be dealt with immediate action! We implore you. Keep your distance until we finish conducting our investigation. Anyone who does not oblige will be imprisoned! This is your final warning. Desist!” </p><p>Despite the show of strength, small crowds still gather around the perimeter, looking as unpleasant as ever. Irritated frowns become the backdrop of a forming scene, and soon the poor folk gather around in small groups of two and threes, whispering amongst themselves before speaking outwards to whoever would lend an ear. </p><p>“Investigatin’ wha’?” A man heckled, one tooth missing from his shabby set. “Is clear as day who done did it! ” Each word is a fuse ignited; it’s only a matter of time until this man, and the rest of the crowd, implodes.</p><p>Then a woman spoke, full in body, her overfilled curves hidden by the long and wide cut of her skirt, “it be the vampires!” A collective sound of approval as the crowd seems to agree with her statement. </p><p>Marianne pulls at his arm, garnering his attention. She looks scared, rightfully so as the folks merge into a bigger crowd and begin to speak of arson (to a manor high on the hill). ”Claude, we should listen.” Her voice laced with worry as the grip on his arm became tighter, constricting, as if impeding the circulation of blood. His arms feel dense, blood pooling to the ends of his fingers, becoming numb and forgotten in the exchange. Green meets blue with sympathy, the sea and land connect, intersecting one another within the tumultuous waves. He is algae, the seaweed, the merry green scales getting swept within her waves. Marianne is all surrounding, all consuming, too big to understand. She is the abyss, her secrets untold. And just like the water, she too can do a turn of the tide. “We need to get going before things take a turn for the worse —Mercedes.” The smaller woman looks down, her brows knitting together in disapproval. “Mercedes.” She is more assertive this time, managing to entertain the other woman’s attention. “Go hail a carriage. And please, act out with haste.” </p><p>The police units begin to mobilize. Claude, Marianne and Mercedes are quick on their feet to get out of harm’s way. They covered their heads once the shattering of glass was heard. Stray pieces fell to the ground and endangered the many beings that walked the paths. Mercedes managed to get a lead on the pair running beside one another, her walk more hurried to step in front of a moving carriage, halting it in pace. It is an act of desperation. Her chest heaving as air infiltrates her lungs in rapid paces. The upper garment of her dress becomes soaked and sticks to her skin to reveal the nude tones underneath. “Halt sir! Have you room to spare ‘pon that carriage of yours? My friends and I are in need of transport.”  She speaks loud enough for her words to be overheard beyond the boisterous crowd. Her arms then move downwards to pacify the startled horses. With warding steps she approaches the driver, fully intending to work out a deal that will get her and her party to safety. </p><p>Whistling rings loud in the air, securing a silence that will bring forth more mayhem. The streets are filled with uncertainty and panic, as are their people. This world is in a manic state due to the people that breathe within it. To maintain his sanity, their sanity, he must do his part to stop the spread of ignorance. </p><p>When one of the townsfolk toppled on the carriage, Marianne shrieked in surprise. A gentleman fell to the floor, blood oozing from his lip, his tooth not too distant from where he had fallen. There is no time left to dwindle; the time to act is now before they too get swept up in the madness. </p><p>Claude opens the carriage door and assists Marianne inside. Next up is Mercedes, and without warning, he pulls at her hand to hoist her inside and then shuts the door with him on the outside. “Your work day has come to a close, ladies. Please do take this spare time to get some rest, you’ve earned it.” He tries his best to make everything sound nonchalant. To act as if there isn’t a maelstrom brewing chaos within their city at this very moment.</p><p>The ladies exchange worried glances. No matter how good he is at pretending, they see through his facade anyways. They know he wants them to leave before matters escalate because he keeps their safety in mind. So, to convince him to join them, they plead to him as their handprints press up against the glass. One of them even tries to push the door open—his guess, Marianne—as he sees her shoulder move frantically to work at the handle. From the exterior Claude keeps his weight against the door, slant against it, forcing both his hands at the handle to prevent turning from the inside. </p><p>“You’re being unreasonable.” A muffled voice. The glass acts as a barrier, distorting the sound to hide the distress. Mercedes’ breath fogs the window, though shortly after the fog dissipates with the wipe of her hand. She is worried, just like Marianne is, she’s just less verbal of her feelings at the moment. </p><p>“Dr. Riegan. Please.” She doesn’t even need to ask; he knows what she asks of him. Part of him wants to be with them, to be inside the carriage, something associated with safety. Nevertheless, his mind, his insistence to keep going keeps him leashed to the outer world —<i>to the madness</i>. </p><p>Guess he’s prone to madness too.</p><p>“I cannot take the day off just yet. There is much work to be done, my dears.” He taps the side of the carriage twice, alerting the driver to get a move on. Taking the hint, the driver cracks the reins, making the horses trotter through the obstacles. Claude remains standing in the middle of the road, watching the carriage move on without him. With his eyes he sees the carriage heading towards a white light. There is no one around, the streets are silent, it’s just him overseeing their escape, standing alone on the edge of the world. Then with a single blink that vision had vanished. The colors revert back to the sombre grays, the rainfall itself adding diminutive blues to the color scheme. Everyone in the scene wears bright colors, but due to the falling water they become saturated, turning darker naturally. Claude’s fists clench at his sides, shaking in silent anger. He turns to the direction of the corpse and still sees her unveiled hand, getting slight glimpses of it from in between frames of people moving, hassling one another. </p><p>Instead of expressing sorrow the people turn to anger, which is still part of the grieving process, just far more along. They have already made their assumptions, already their verdicts placed on those who cannot defend themselves in broad daylight. This strikes him as something that’s been ongoing, and is now becoming an issue that cannot be ignored. The people are tired. Tired of being fodder, tired of not having the answers they seek: who is responsible? The crimson question.</p><p>With each person that’s cherry picked it is easy to fall into panic, and then the easier it becomes for one’s rationality to be forgotten. The two go hand in hand, working together in a tangent to spread the seeds of furor. </p><p>Claude’s breath catches in his throat when he sees an upcoming carriage, blue paint alerting him of what it is associated with—the police. The horses stop short before the crowd, the carriage doors vaulting open to reveal the many policemen cramped inside. They exited the vehicle, acting in diplomacy at first and providing verbal instructions for the madness to cease. However, the people were tired, they never saw eye to eye with the force. They know that the workforce is negligent, that it cannot be trusted. Claude gets the feeling that many lives have been lost to this anomaly. He trusts this feeling with his gut.</p><p>Caspar’s line, <b>‘I think yer quite mad comin ‘ere of all places,’ </b>puts things into perspective.</p><p>Claude should stay. There are many who are injured, some from the force, some who are not, but at the end of the day, they are all part of the same community. Each beating heart has value, and he must see this value indiscriminately. Nevertheless, his feet move in the opposite direction, carrying his body away from the madness. Securing his freedom from inevitable arrest. Liberating him from the iron bars before they are even placed in front of him.</p><p>Suddenly, a woman spoke to him, her words a whisper inside his head telling him to <b>‘run away.’</b> It is not a voice he recognizes. That should terrify him, but it doesn’t, and instead, he chooses to ignore the rarity of this occurrence. He blames it on the mind, on how exhausted he is and how tense his body feels. What better way to soothe his body than with the voice of a woman? Soft spoken and gentle, commandeering his attention. It is the voice of a performer. The voice of an unknown woman, <i>a made up woman.</i></p><p>The voice urges him to keep moving. It gives him the confidence to carry on despite the ill feeling he gets out of it. He shouldn’t trust it, then again, this is only a trick of the mind. A farce. She isn’t real, but what’s very real is the need to get away.</p><p>To some, running is considered the coward’s way out. Those who think that way fail to see the impotence of honor. Claude &gt;i&gt;must be a free man. He is less of a loss to society this way.</p><p>Claude continues to run, his steps causing heavy splashes in the puddles, disturbing it from its restful state and fragmenting it into droplets where they cling to his clothes in desperation. He feels frantic as he feels when the voice gets louder, overriding his own thoughts in the process. These are not his thoughts.</p><p><b>‘Look out.’</b> </p><p>He halts in his tracks, looking up as a horse on its hind legs towers over him. The creature seems frightened by his sudden appearance, its neighs ringing loudly over the sound of rain. The horse’s hooves come down aggressively, prompting him to jump out of the way to avoid getting struck. He lands on the cobblestone path hands first, followed by his knees. His skin peels at the minor scrapes on his epidermis, stinging under the wetness of the air. </p><p>“Watch where you’re going!” The driver yells at him before drifting into traffic. But then, another horse comes his way, less aggressive but still alive with the intent to trample him. Claude uses his hands to balance himself, hastily pushing himself upright before he sprints out of the way. He uses the momentum and keeps going, running around the carriages that move against his flow.</p><p>His heartbeat is in the base of the throat, pulsing diligently to maneuver him through the streets. Claude changes his direction and now heads to the sidewalk, there are still obstacles, but less of those that can grievously injure him. He moves through the people, jumps over piles of garbage, even goes as far as to trip over a pothole. Through careful measures he did not fall but his pace was dwarfed. </p><p>Something compelled him to look to the side of the road as he moved. A higher calling perchance? Once he did he was met by a womanly figure on the opposing side. The upper half of her face is covered by an umbrella, still, he could witness her crimson tinted lips spread into a smirk. The background of her dark and tight ringlets that frame her body provides a variance to the light color she wears. Her dress is glorious, weighted beneath the waistline by panniers to create a shape of refined class. This woman leads a life of luxury, he can tell by the range of the width of her skirt, and how it loops around her legs to hide the ideal of a natural figure. In turn the bodice is more constricting, fitting tightly around her torso. It contains enough padding that it straightens out the natural curves of both breasts and waist, making the silhouettes linear. Whoever this woman is, she wears an off shoulder design ornamentally fitted with frills that congregate from the navel and diverge upwards towards the sleeves. The frills wrap around the mid of the bicep in threes to create texture and showcase her expedited wealth. </p><p>Claude is floored by this woman’s magnificence, so much so, that he halts his tracks to ogle. Time proceeds in slow motion. Anyone who is not them comes in and out of frame in a blurry daze, and their voices, they morph into lower pitches, incomprehensible and unimportant, meant to be ignored and forgotten. </p><p>Wide eyed in his endeavors, his body moves without consent and takes one courageous step into the street. He swallows but there is nothing to swallow. His mouth is dry, his body weightless, as if no inhibitions currently exist within him. All that matters is this woman. He must get to her for reasons he himself does not know, or dares not to acknowledge.</p><p>There is a lack of desire in his intention. He moves without his own heart and mind in it and it is as if something or <i>someone</i> compels him.</p><p>
  <b>‘Come.’</b>
</p><p>That voice is so estranged in his ear, repeating phrases that are meant to be soon forgotten. They come as easily as they go, he cannot commit them to memory, and yet, they sound familiar all the same. Could it be the woman he sees? So perfectly dried in this weathered place. Of pristine conditions she stands broad the cityscape marred with misfortune. She is timeless, beautiful in all the ages, and he, a mortal meant to wither and die.</p><p>Claude continues his walk. The slowness of his steps dragging across a beaten path. His future, as he approaches this mysterious woman, looks bleak. </p><p>No looking one way or the other, forfeiting all distractions, he is mindless in his journey. <b>‘almost there,’</b> clearer and unmistakable, there is a presence inside his head. Words that are not his own manifest into letters and those letters conform into strings, the very strings that puppeteer him into crossing this road.</p><p>Through the gaps in passing coaches he sees her, her image beckoning closer. She never moves, Claude does all the moving, and to this point he still does not know why. </p><p>It takes a carriage’s wheel to nearly flatten his foot to get him out of his trance. Startled in place he is suddenly fully aware of himself. Movement and judgment, all is his. He has regained autonomy, though currently unsure on how to properly put it to use while in the middle of the street.</p><p>He hears the drivers scream at him to get out of the way, to move or he’d be moved. Claude pays them no mind as his focus is largely preoccupied elsewhere. His lips press together into a strict line. Their corners dipping downward, creating creases at the outer edge of his lips that deepen his expression.</p><p>A vanishing act. The woman of mystery is no longer where he last saw her, in fact she isn’t anywhere, not a single trace left behind. As if she never existed.</p><p>Perhaps she doesn’t and she was just a figment of the imagination. Oftentimes the heart betrays the mind. The heart spills its secrets, reveals what it wants most, and convinces the mind that what it believes is reality.</p><p>The mind gives it life, gives it a face, gives it a voice, even if it’s not real.</p><p>He goes over to the spot where the apparition once took place just to really make sure. His eyes survey the surrounding area for footprints, or really anything that might prove her existence. But he finds nothing, only a pavement that’s as wet as he is.</p><p>
  <i>So it was no one.</i>
</p><p>As unsettling as it had been, he ignored the events altogether and walked to the ends of the city. If he cannot work here he’ll travel to the more rural areas, maybe even pay that elder gentleman another visit. Once Claude reaches the city limits he is met with a blockade of carriages, and right outside them stand their officers, heeding individuals to leave and stay indoors. </p><p>The practitioner keeps his distance, he does not approach, instead, he digs his hands to his pockets, to adopt a pose of indifference. To appear inattentive, and yet, be mindful of his surroundings. It is a tact he has perfected over the years. He blends into the pockets of crowds, lingering at a respectable distance to remain within ear shot. He collects bits of information, key phrases that alert him of the situation at hand: “no one gets in, no one gets out,” “a murder,” “someone dangerous walks free,” “stay indoors,” “stay safe,” “current investigation,” “capture.”</p><p>Different conversations forming parts of a conclusion. He cannot leave, no one can leave until the investigation comes to an end. The lockdown ensures the killer stays within a smaller perimeter, something more manageable as compared to a whole continent. Though who is to say that the killer has not already escaped? What if the killer strikes again? —who then will guarantee their safety? </p><p>Claude makes his leave. His head tilting towards the ground making his gaze downcast. He walks as far as his feet are willing to and that is to the nearest pub. Quite inconsequential in the design as it stands firmly upon the pavement with new wood. It is painted white with the handiwork of locals, he can see the streaks of the brush as is the result of hasted strokes in varying directions. The inside is nothing to write home about, it’s spacious enough to accommodate a number of tables and chairs on its floor, other than that, the interior is quite bland. Half-full bottles of liquor stock the shelves. If there were bottles missing one could find them on the counter where the tender mix and matches the drinks to create an inebriating concoction.</p><p>Lanterns hang from the ceiling, their dim light failing to spread warmth and light on an otherwise gloomy day. Partly because splayed fabric has been stuffed through lantern loops, connecting one lantern to the many. </p><p>It is the center light that all of them are connected to. Four fabrics in total, their knots bridging to the center lantern where each individual piece will stretch outward to a designated lantern. The fabric droops in the center prior to reaching the next light. Once the fabric is fitted through the loop that connects the lantern to the chain, the excess fabric hangs from the sides showcasing the decorative patterns. No pattern is identical. the colors and shapes experiment to add some variety.</p><p>Claude takes a step and he hears the scrunching of paper, looking down he sees newspaper pages on the floor like doormats. The bottom of his feet turned the white of the paper gray with all the water and dirt. With every step the paper continues to stick to his shoes, the water acting as a binding adhesive. </p><p>He’s loud in his entrance, and even louder when he sits on a barstool with an impromptu huff. </p><p>Claude leans to the side to better reach his feet, ripping out the stray pieces of paper from his shoes and crumbling it up into a satisfying stress-reducing lump.</p><p>“ ‘ere. Give it.” An external voice, one with unamused qualities. Claude brings his hands down only to see another hand come into view. Her palm opened in an offering to rid him of the rubbish. He simply nods and places the dirty ball of newspaper on her hand. She then disposes it by tossing it into a neglected corner prior to continuing her menial tasks. </p><p>The woman has short hair. Ginger locks cropped at the nape of the neck, its volume nestling towards the top of the head. She appears to be a woman who gives attention to those who seek if. If you don’t take the initiative she simply won’t give you the time of day. </p><p>His posture tilted, the curve of his spine has him folding over the wood while droplets of fresh water descends from his hair. “Give me the strongest bottle you’ve got.” His voice drenched in the puddles of listlessness. The only thing to vitalize him now is the taste of a fermented drink. “Don’t spare the refills, madam.” He comments, hinting to the long evening ahead. </p><p>The bartender slams a bottle on the counter. The content inside swooshes within the container, spreading the drink equally across its translucent walls. Dark like burnt sugar, he can tell it's thick just by looking at it. “I might as well give ya’ the whole damn bottle then.” She comments as she wipes the brim with a used rag. </p><p>Claude brings the bottle to his mouth, sealing the rim with his lips to allow the bitters to slip past the barricade and slip into his mouth. It makes the throat burn, but soon that turns into a calming numbness that starts affecting the rest of his body. </p><p>“As far as I’m concerned it could have been some mangy mutt that did it.” He hears someone speak from across the room. Claude turns towards the direction and finds a group of three men on the far side of the tables, huddled in their corner under the pretense of privacy. In interest he merely hums as he takes another swig from the bottle. </p><p>“Rumor has it they found bite marks on the body.” That same person speaks again, a man of green hair that’s styled half-way up and a suit to match the unusual color of his mane. “As if vampires are the only creatures with teeth.” </p><p>From the group Claude recognizes one of their faces. A sickly pale man with an unlit demeanor. His long limbs and macabre style reminds him of a crypt: elegant, purposeful and tenebrous. What is his name again? It’s at the tip of his tongue. </p><p>“What say you, Hubert?” Asks another, this voice is much deeper, the man much bigger. His long hair is the same color as Mercedes, but where her hair is thick, his is thin and frail. </p><p>Hubert. <i>That’s it.</i> </p><p>“Dogs are most known for biting faces, not necks. Though let us entertain the idea that it is indeed a ‘mangy mutt’ as you have so cleverly put it with your elementary words, Linhardt. A dog’s bite is forceful. Once it bites it shant let go. If that is indeed the case, there’s bound to be several puncture wounds, and yet, the people speak of two punctures. No more. No less.” The man speaks like a snake, slow and threatening.  </p><p>It seems that words travel fast around these parts.</p><p>“So do you believe it to be vampires then? Unsurprising considering who you work for.”</p><p>“I never made any claims of the sort. I’m using logic in my speculation, something you easily forgo with a sip or two, you childish man.”  </p><p>The two keep going at it with no interjection from the third member. Claude continues to listen to their prattel as an outsider. Hours pass and he’s concluded that they are part of the ghost club due to their insistence to absolve the creatures of folklore from the crime. Good counter points have been made both in favor and not, but there is one crucial thing, none of them were there at the crime scene. None of them bore witness to the terrifying bloodshed, to the bloodstains that will continue to torment his every waking moment. </p><p>Claude is no stranger to death. He’s had patients die on him before, but each time it had been peaceful. This death was not peaceful, it was violent, unjustly so. </p><p>“I say it’s a person, a murderer to be more precise.” His first words in hours and they came out slurred, taking some of the credibility from his tongue. This caught the attention from the members, specifically, the one who is named Jeritza. He stares at Claude with such piercing intensity that it makes him rethink the approach altogether. There is a smirk to his lips and a coldness to his eyes, something distant like a glacier drifting alone at sea. </p><p>“Enlighten us Dr. Riegan, what makes you so certain of this conclusion?” He asks, challenging him in a way he’s not certain he can deliver upon. Too stirred by the fact that they know his identity without him willingly giving it. The practitioner clears his throat prior to soliciting a question of his own.  </p><p>“And how exactly do you fine gentlemen know who I am?” He is apprehensive in his question. Too distrusting of new faces who already knew more than he did. His back straightens, changing his posture into one that’s rooted in sternness.</p><p>“My sister is quite good with words: he listens but only to himself. He is handsome, brown of skin paired with viridescent eyes. He is much like a moth drawn to the flame of knowledge, small and a wander to gaze upon. My sister has told us much about you. I’m certain Mercedes has spoken much about us, but only if you’ve listened.” </p><p>Claude squints, and then ever so eagerly, changes the script and his expression to go along with it. A fake smile graces his features, derailing the conversation at hand. He’s grown quite uncomfortable with him being the focus, so now he has to bring it all back on track. </p><p>His bottle is empty but still he gazes upon its insides. Looking, as if he’ll find his words in the pit of it. “In the crime scene the walls were red with blood. Vampires, when they feed, are very efficient. As the saying goes, blood is their source of food, they wouldn’t waste it as the crime scene entails.” A pause to make sure his words settle on the audience. “I do not believe in vampires but I believe in hatred. I believe that someone with a lot of hate in their heart is committing these atrocities and making it seem like something else is responsible for it.”</p><p>“So you believe that it is a madman?” Jeritza asks, setting down his drink. His words are forced, as if the civility is slowly being choked out of him.</p><p>“Or madwoman.” Claude does not break eye contact, to do so will be to accept defeat. “There is no way of me knowing, it’s all pure speculation.” He airs out with a notion of nonchalance. With this Jeritza gets out of his chair only to tuck it back into place. His chuckle was the only thing louder than the screeching of the chair. </p><p>“It appears our time together has drawn to a stop. It’s best that I head home, I don't want to give my sister more cause for worry. I imagine today’s proceedings have done a number on her nerves as is.” Jeritza puts on his longcoat, the fabric comfortably draping over his limbs in a snug fit. He walks to the door and suddenly stops when he opens it.”I encourage you gentlemen to do the same, I’m afraid that it’s far too late for us to wander the streets without peril. “ With that he steps out underneath the caliginous sky.</p><p>There is a yawn that sounds very much like Linhardt. He’s been drifting in and out of consciousness many times throughout the discussions, not because of being tired, but simply due to being uninterested in what input his companions offered.  “Ah, Leonie. Be a dear and add Dr. Riegan’s drink to our tab, will you?” He says, sealing his request with another yawn. </p><p>Linhardt leaves and then it’s Hubert who remains. </p><p>Hubert, the way he moves, the way he speaks, it brings about him a fine age. He is unhurried, untroubled by those he considers meager. Claude is one of those meager people, someone who has not yet proven himself. He tucks his cane beneath his arm when pushing in his chair. All black in his wardrobe the cane blends within his slim figure. Tall and intimidating he walks with an air of indifference to him. There is no care in his eyes, no trace of emotion, to some this makes him apathetic, but to Claude this is someone who has seen the world for how it is and has adapted to it.</p><p>Hubert stands before the other and glances at the empty bottle. The smell of bitters exuding from Claude, making his pale nose curl in disgust. </p><p>“You are a mouse Sir Riegan. A creature fitted to remain inside crevices and out of sight.” Hubert speaks plainly just before leaving Claude to mull over the intent of those words.</p><p>A sigh leaves his body, at the expulsion, he feels the muscles become less tense by the number of diminishing bodies inside the room. Now there were just two, Claude and the bartender under the name of Leonie. </p><p>No one else had come in after him. It has just been them two for the past hour or so. He rarely exchanged words with the bartender, his mouth often too busy with drink. Not that she minded, she had her own work to attend to. </p><p>“Quiet as a mouse, huh.” She comments, wiping clean the last of the glasses. Already having swept the nearby vicinity, and counted her inventory, there’s little else to do but stack the chairs. “Can’t believe you let him talk to you like that.” Leonie puts away a glass prior to moving from behind the counter. </p><p>“Not everything requires a response.” Is his defense. Not so clearly spoken when the alcohol simpered his lips. </p><p>“Just when I was about to give up.” A third voice enters, one that he recognizes from earlier in the day. Both him and Leonie turn to face the door, and when they do he comes to find the very same apparition. A now tangible entity of the same soft spoken voice. This time he can see the entirety of her face, her dolled cheeks and green colored eyes. A step and then another, the clicking of her heels on the floorboards make for an ominous creak, making the male’s expression more deadpan than it ought to be. “Never thought that I would find you here of all places.” She muses aloud, zeroing in on Claude as she twirls her open umbrella over her shoulder. It casts a shadow over her as it repels the dimming candlelights. The flames dance slowly, their fervency low, all three of them slowly enraptured by the growing night in a place where moonlight won’t reach.</p><p>“You two, take this outside.” Leonie places her hand on her hip as she speaks, shifting her weight to one leg. Her head held up high though it’s hard to account for in the low light.</p><p>“I will not be here long.” Too quick to comment, too happy in doing so, this woman is not phased by other people’s agenda, all that matters is her own.</p><p>“I don’t care, I’m closing for the night.” Adamant in her stance, Leonie leaves no room for compromise. The unnamed woman’s soft smile still plastered on her face, her reaction to demonstrate how unbothered she is at the treatment given. A hand of pale flesh extends outwards for Claude to grasp, nude in a sense when it bears no line of cloth. Gently his hand clasps around her hanging digits, she feels cool to the touch; he bares this in mind when his lips press to the base of her fingers, spreading his warmth in the form of a kiss. His heat is an imprint that stays upon her long after his mouth leaves. His lips unfurl into a smile, relishing the memory of the texture of her skin, it’s suppleness, and how it brims with youth. </p><p>“To whom do I owe this pleasure?” He speaks with mirth, intending to play the part of a lovestruck fool. Oblivious, but never actually oblivious, this is a game of cat and mouse, and just as Hubert had said, he is a mouse. </p><p>“Dorothea.” No mention of a last name, how odd. Claude stands up from his stool, and together they walk out of the establishment hand in hand. The footsteps they leave behind a memoir of their ill fated meeting. </p><p>The moon’s glow is shy as it radiates from far away, basking them both in a faint light. The white shimmers turn Claude's skin pale under the blue tones and Dorothea only becomes all the more flattering. The insipidness of her nature is what makes the red of her lips more striking, the only color to stand out beyond their combined assortment. </p><p>“Pardon my saying, milady, but may I ask what’s got you wandering these streets when dark? It’s not safe to travel alone considering recent circumstances.” He sets the bait. </p><p>“But I’m not travelling alone. I’ve got you here with me and I do not plan on letting go of you just yet.” Her grip on his bicep tightens, the nails digging further into the fabric until he feels the prick of nails over his skin. </p><p>“And why’s that?” His curiosity is not disingenuous.</p><p>She takes a moment to answer. Her gaze is focused elsewhere, on to the lessening crowds of people that are leaving the city streets. Everyone seems to be heading home early in fear of what may transpire later, perhaps another dead body will be added to the current toll. “I came to offer you an invitation, Sir Riegan.” She looks up at him, her own expression softening once she meets his eyes. “I may not look it but I grew up in these slums. The people here have become quite fond of you in such little time and that’s because you’ve taken great care of them and ask nothing in return.” </p><p>“And I suppose I’m here to accept this in good faith?” She nods, a rebuttal to his question.</p><p>“A dear friend of mine’s is hosting a party at the end of the month and I would like for you to attend as my plus one. Consider it my gratitude for your hard work and your interest in my people.” This invitation hardly sounds like it’s worth his time. Though, he does raise a brow to the quote of <i>my people.</i> </p><p>“Lady Dorothea, I am flattered, but I cannot take all the credit. I am assisted day in and day out, I never work alone, to claim to do so is a disservice to those who work besides me.”</p><p>“Then they can come too. There’s plenty of space up in the manor.”</p><p>
  <i>The manor up the hill.</i>
</p><p>He swallows at the revelation. This could do wonders for his research. He could meet the siblings up close and personal, interview them and the like, but this feels too sudden. The pieces lining up too perfectly and it feels out of his control. He’s chary, every nerve in his body is trying to steer him in the opposite direction. He fights under her guidance, when she pulls he draws back, and this leads to a subtle halt. With his vacant hand he runs his fingers through his hair, styling it back to prevent drooping from the sides. It still feels damp even after all this time.</p><p>“As lovely as that offer is, I’m afraid we will have to pass. There is simply too much work that needs to be done, and as they say, there is no rest for the wicked. Besides, I doubt you’d want to attend with a man you hardly know.” </p><p>“If it’s a matter of knowing one another there is still time to remedy that.” Dorothea says pressing her body against his. He feels the bodice slump against his arm, pushing her bristols closer together, all to try and coax him into being a victim of seduction. Thankfully, he still has his wits about him.</p><p>“Such a tempting offer, one that I too must decline.” He smiles to lessen the infliction. She mimics him in that, but the wrinkles that set on the corner of her lips are plentiful, as if inwardly resembling that of a frown.</p><p>“Do be mindful that even the wicked need rest Sir Riegan.” So proximal do the huffing of horses sound as the loudness of wheels spur over crackled terrain. A carriage creeps up as if her words had summoned it. The sleek wood of the carriage sanded down to where there were no sharp corners. Its exterior painted black to match the garments of its driver, a man as equally opaque as the vehicle, Hubert. </p><p>“Be a dear and walk me to my carriage?” She speaks only to him, as if Hubert and his purpose are nonexistent in her life.</p><p>He does as instructed and walks Dorothea up to the carriage, and like a gentleman, opens the door for her. He aids her up the steps, and as she mounts the vehicle he was able to detect a slight fragrance of flowers. The woman closes her umbrella prior to taking her seat, tucking the bulk of her dress behind her knees as she did. Mindful of the limited space she sets the umbrella over her knees.</p><p>“If you ever change your mind, do come find me.”</p><p>A wink to finish her final request to him. She closes the door promptly, the curtain from within flutter alongside the gesture. Once settled, her figure is taken out of view by the cloth. </p><p>Claude catches something moving from his peripheral. A once blurred image becomes solid as it hangs over him in indifference. An envelope with his name written in dark cursive letters.</p><p>“From Lady Edelgard.” Comments Hubert, waiting for Claude to take interest in the envelope. The second his own fingers come in contact, Hubert relinquishes his hold and leaves, taking Dorothea with him in silence. This leaves Claude to stand on his lonesome, well, not entirely in his lonesome when he’s been bequeathed the company of a letter. He’s got half the mind to stuff it in his pocket, however, the fabric of his coat still finds itself damp from the earlier rain. Would putting it in such a place tarnish the quality of the envelope? Make its ink runny with regret until the phrases inside smudge into the realms of illiteracy? It’s quite a possibility. </p><p>Claude Von Riegan walks into the mercy of the night.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As a warning there is blood mention at the end of the chapter. That being said, I'm pushing the bratty Claude agenda, enjoy!</p>
<p>You can find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/whorerormovie">twitter</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>His skin feels chilly as the night breeze hits. The dwindling lights of the streets slipping away with a gust of wind, taking away both his light source and heat. Claude is not scared but he is not a man who fares well in the cold. He is a man of summer, a single drop of honey, sweet and thick on the palate. These streets encompass everything he is not. They are cramped and colorless, rude, ugly, and many more adjectives that he does not resonate with. The only thing he’s come to admire from here are the people, their perseverance, ingenuity, the way they live and survive makes them strong. He admires strength and so do his people. Claude’s not particularly strong, that’s why when he finally arrives at his domicile the first thing he does is burn the letter. Best not to lose focus, and he cannot be tempted if he doesn’t know what’s inside. He has his suspicions and clings to them as one would to faith. It is most likely an official invitation to the party, one he has no intentions of attending. And if it isn’t that, well, it’s nothing but embers now. Lady Edelgard's words feed the fire, making the light that grows vibrant as it basks over his skin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claude does a change of clothes, pulling on something more comfortable. The pants that fit him stick close to his skin, accentuating the shape of his long legs, the blouse he wears on the other hand utilizes space more sparingly. It is loose-fitting on his chest and white. There are fabricated cords that sling from the sides of the collar, leading into a deep cut that exposes part of his chest. The sleeves themselves are twice the thickness of his arms, the fabric soft and translucent as it avoids touching his skin. A certain sense of elegance in the puffiness of his inner-wear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His head begins to sport a headache, so to conceal it, he serves himself some warm tea. It’s the liquor, he thinks, it just has to be. With cup in hand he slouches on one of his chairs, reading over one of the many documents skewed over a table. There is no contingency between the prints, no topic of relative interest, nothing is organized and yet it all makes sense. He picks up one of the pages and recognizes the name of a patient. His handwriting, cursive and insufferable, makes the notes hard to comprehend. He takes a sip and immediately feels his taste buds lighten with the taste. He puts the report down and picks up yet another page, this time it’s an inventory listing of the medications. Eventually he too discards that to the side, into one of the many piles that exists in his small space. Just how much time has passed he does not know, but what he knows is the wax of candle shortens, dragging down the light to a slow pulsing beat. The tint of red frames a fraction of his face, making the opposing shadows opaque. In his hand he holds a poster, one he snatched a week prior about the creatures of the night, vampires.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It illustrates two women. White is used to indicate highlight, everything else is dark, meaning to be rich in color. One kneels in horror under the presence of a crucefix, her hands drawn over her face to conceal her from the divine light that repels her. The one that holds the object is a nun, her age defined by the dark strokes of a brush, pruned and tired.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had been writing some notes on the subject, though nothing concrete as of yet, there’s still much that he has to do, information to gather, people of interest to study, so on and so forth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is a knock at the door. Distracted by the sound his wrist begins to relax as he places importance elsewhere. Another set of knocks followed when he didn’t answer the first time. At the smell of smoke he turns his head back to the page and sees how flames scorch the paper, consuming everything in sight </span>
  <span>(</span>
  <span>starting with the crucifix</span>
  <span>)</span>
  <span>. Claude gets up from his chair, staring as the hole on the center of the page grows bigger. The black smoke that rose from it clung to him and made that smell his own. On his way to the door Claude discarded the remains of the illustration into the fire, revitalizing the flames.   </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He should not answer the door. It’s late, far later than socially acceptable. His hand rests on the doorknob mulling the alternatives, forehead pressing against the cold door. What if someone needs aid? He is a doctor, and that is his calling no matter the time of day. The door rattles as another knock emerges, this time, he steps back to open the door. Before him stands a woman short of stature, her skin pale like a corpse’s and with hair to match the tincture. Another mysterious woman, so young in age and still her hair is white. Certainly her body must be ill with phlegm, at least, according to what he’s studied. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pardon my rudeness but it is late, very late.” His last two words are emphasized. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nods in agreement. “It is.” The verbal admittance. Her posture is strict as she stands with her back erect, one arm folded behind her back, while the other holds an umbrella much like one would a cane. Her long skirt just hangs, lacking the extraordinary qualities of an upper class woman. If he has to surmise she must be middle class or lower. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You are the doctor whom everyone speaks of.” She sounds too certain for this to be a question. “I’ve come to request your aid with a personal matter.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claude hesitates before answering. The bead of sweat on his brow is a prominent thing as it cascades. “Couldn’t this wait until morning?” Not an answer, this just buys him time and postpones the inevitable.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Obviously not if I’m here now.” A mutual silence is shared by the two of them. “Am I to be standing here all night or am I to be led inside?” She continues, her words prodding at his current sensitive state. He puts on a smile for show and steps to the side to allow her indoors, but that alone was not enough to satisfy her. “You must say the words.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How unusual- “please, do come in?” He’s uncertain if these are even the words she meant. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She smiles as she enters, something mischievous on her beautiful face. He glances outside to make sure that no one else is out there prior to closing the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My sincerest gratitude for granting me permission to enter your home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He locks the door. The click is suddenly the loudest sound in the room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hand has still not left the doorknob.  “It is no inconvenience milady. Would you care for some tea?” He asks only to be courteous. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shakes her head in refusal, her long side ponytail stretching with the movement. “I will not be here long.” These were the words Dorothea said,  though now they are given a different voice. His temperature drops, he can feel his body getting colder, the woman turns to face him knowingly, as if she knew of the chill traveling up his spine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The scent of pine leaves his lips as they maneuver around the words that just do not seem to come out. He needs to know her name, but his throat feels frail and collapses before he’s able to formulate any sound. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My name is Edelgard.” She answers as if she knows the nature of his thoughts. “And I have come to you seeking aid on behalf of my brother, Dimitri. He is not well, and has not been for quite some time I’m afraid.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What troubles him?” He asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s why I sought you to answer that question for me.” She taps her umbrella once against his floor, the ruckus regurgitating throughout the walls of this old place. He does not have much in terms of personal belongings, in fact, this place is not very accomodating for guests as it lacks a considerable amount of furniture. For a doctor he lives like a modest man, one who is frugal with his belongings. With no social life why spare coin for the commodity of others when he lives alone, and will most likely remain alone until the end of his days. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He sleeps all day and is up wandering at all hours of the night. He is also not feeding well as of late, I fear that he may become famished, he’s already lost a considerable amount of weight. I fear for what may become of him if this proceeds.” She walks up to Claude, her body mere inches away from his. Edelgard looks up into his eyes, the violet of her eyes appear so violent. His back presses against the door and she locks him in place by the magnitude of her intensity. “Will you take my brother on as your patient?”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment they are stuck orbiting around one another. The thoughts of his mind lapsing until nothing but the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes </span>
  </em>
  <span>remains. Yes is all he wants to say, needs to say. His lips quiver trying to get the word out, it is unnatural, not of his own doing but he says it. He agrees to see Dimitri and Edelgard is all the more happy because of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll see him on the ‘morrow.” His final statement, wishing that this will be enough to sate her intrusion, and it is, his answer is worthy enough to set her mind at ease. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Very well.” Edelgard strikes her umbrella over the ground again, the thud clears this head, makes him focused enough to part from the door as he opens it. After she pases him she takes a pause underneath the door frame, her back turned to Claude. “Thank you, doctor.” Although he cannot see her face he can visualize the upheave on the corner of her lips. The smirk of a woman can be a dangerous thing depending on the intention.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll be seeing you, Lady Edelgard.” He watches her leave his property, her steps quieted by the length of her skirt. The bigger the gap between them the less clouded his mind became, as if fog cleared from within him. He watches Edelgard until she hops into a carriage a few steps shy from his third neighbor. Claude squints, forcing his vision, as if the gesture will enhance the image. The beating of his heart seizes for a second once he recognizes the swept back hair and daunted cheeks  —</span>
  <em>
    <span>it’s Hubert</span>
  </em>
  <span>— by god it’s Hubert. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shuts his door and locks it. His head tilts against the door whilst eyes focus heavily on the doorknob. There is one thing for certain, Hubert was not there when Edelgard first arrived. That being said, he never heard a carriage pull up to the surrounding area. Which leads him to these sets of questions, just how did she know where he lives? Did Hubert follow him? Shouldn’t be possible, he headed the opposite direction, unless someone else had followed unbeknownst to him. Why wasn’t he privy of it before? Claude’s always been inquisitive, it is within his nature, so why did he fail to ask more questions? He hits his head once against the door to chastise himself, and then another just because he deserves it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He feels the soft pangs of his headache reappearing and deems it wise to withdraw into bed for the night. He decides that come morning, he will head to the manor. </span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the sun rises, Claude too rises alongside it, and just as the sun sets itself over the sky the following morning, he finds himself setting foot on the manor’s porch. True to his word he rakes his knuckles against the pale door. The door is thick with paint, as if over the years the many coats to renovate it have made it bolder. His knocks carry with less expression, they are humble, mindful of the early hours and to not stir everyone awake, just whoever may have been lingering nearby. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The house itself is uninviting, to say the least, many of its rounded windows are boarded with planks of wood. To separate the outside from the inside, to prevent anyone from peering in. Those windows weren’t covered by trimmed trees were simply left in the shadows by a veil of black to be framed as curtains. The condition of the estate is deplorable from the outside, on many areas the paint had entirely subsided, leaving only behind the natural color of wood. Various particles strung out from said wood, many chips and splinters as if someone had been scratching at it. If Claude has to assume the estate is about three floors, fairly spacious for just a party of two, so his guess is that more people live inside the manor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A house with an odd layout, it seems as though a tower like construction is the centerpoint. Rectangular in its shape it stretches far beyond the rest of the house ending in a flat roof top. From its frontal view he can see a total of three sets of windows, one designated for each floor. None of these windows are covered by planks, but still, the curtain maintains the same shroud of mystery. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The rest of the estate converges from this tower, splitting off into two separate directions. As if two different units, different houses, are connected at the hip by that tower. That which adds unity to the architectural layout. His eyes follow the sloping sides of the roof and the wooden detailing that lines the borders of the triangular extensions. He notes that the windows on these walls are bow windows so they are protruding from the sides of the house, not necessarily built from the outside, but a different compartment altogether to make the house’s exterior less flat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This house has a life of its own, it ages, depleting and forgotten with time. Perhaps antique might be a more acceptable reference. It just feels vagabond when compared to the accomplishments of the finer parts of the city. Every building there puts this one to shame. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And to think that the most popular residents live in such a sorry estate. His expectations were pinned too high, it seems. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A gentleman opens the door, he too is of white hair, but not of white skin. His eyes are the most delectable color of green tea, something warm, soothing and easy to be transfixed in. The lightness of these colors contrast to his dark tone, a deep rich color of brown. It reminds him of lumber, something sturdy, something that could be both tall and powerful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you Dimitri?” He inquires. His assumption built solely on hair color.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man shakes his head before answering. “Dimitri is not available, please leave.” The door begins to close, the hand behind it certain of its intent until Claude objects midway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait, sir, you misunderstand. Lady Edelgard sent for me, she wanted me to see him.” The man’s lips pull into a tightline, allowing just the slightest hint of emotion to slip from his stern facade.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I misunderstand nothing. Mr. Blaidydd did not call on you, therefore, he will not entertain your company. Good day.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just allow me a moment to explain. I’m a-” The door shuts on his face. The waft of air that results from it spurs his hair and coat. A shadow that can be viewed from underneath the door, it’s presence soon vanquishes after Claude’s dismissal. “--doctor...” Claude finishes his sentence dejectedly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All things considered, he kept his word </span>
  <span>(</span>
  <span>somewhat</span>
  <span>)</span>
  <span>. He showed up, just as he said he would, but due to circumstance he was not able to meet the one named Dimitri. Claude begins to take his leave, each sound of the rickety floorboards transforms into an eerie note as if an instrument.</span>
</p>
<p><span> Claude stops steady on the solid earth and looks back to the manor. His eyes focusing on the windows for any sign of a presence. Eventually he finds a shadowy figure standing behind one of the curtains. With his expert knowledge in the human body he is able to deduce that it’s a man, not the very same man that greeted him, but another figure. Though this man too is tall he is not as broad, and his hair is longer as the outlines have it growing barely past the shoulders. Based on the stance Claude knows that he’s being looked down upon. This person has</span> <span>been looking at him, perhaps since before he’d even reached the door. The thought unsettles him. </span></p>
<p>
  <span>To be perceived without his knowledge, to have assumptions made of him without context, it’s all unsettling. Claude is used to talking his way in and out of situations, rarely has the rug been swept from under his feet such as this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is a stupid decision but he will return after the sun has fallen. Dimitri sleeps all day, at least that’s how the story was passed down to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What he does now is no longer related to the minced words between Edelgard and himself. This is much more than that, this is his ego disposing of the alarms ringing in his head for the sake of curiosity --</span>
  <em>
    <span>for the sake of his research</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Dimitri and Edelgard are feared and rumored to be vampires by the people of this city, and it is for the people that he will find out whether their fear is misplaced or not. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Night time has arrived and Claude finds himself walking the same path he did in the morning, however, the road ahead seems far more perilous now. With a handheld light equipped, his steps sink in between the pebbles of the path. The light it casts is minimal, illuminating mere inches in front of him. With reduced visibility he has to be mindful of where he places his steps because a wrong move can pivot him to the start of the hill with broken bones and all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s dark, eerily so that the tree branches appear to be hands, moving and twitching freely with the wind. Each twittle of bark sent him on high alert. The moon is high, beautiful if he dare say in its completed form. The only thing that grants him peace of mind is knowing that that radiant orb in the sky watches over him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The hill leading up to the manor has a lot of empty land. Poppy fields with ruckus, its pasture so dry that each minor tilt exudes a great sound. He feels although he is followed but knows that it must be the insects, especially the crickets since he hears them so. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claude yolts at the screeching of an animal, it sounds much like a lamb. Its voice is broken. Pained whimpers fill the air in a haunting ambience. The noise gets louder in the struggle, but even then he can tell its time is nearing as the voice dies out in a lonely silence. Claude picks up his pace, streamlining to the manor, uncertain of how proximal he is to the establishment. He pulls out his pocket watch from the coat pocket, something his father gifted him long before his departure. The sterling silver feels cool on his palm, and only seems to warrant warmth when the lantern grows near it. The kind light spreads over the hands of the clock, it’s auburn undertones coaxing the white of his watch into a different color. According to his watch minutes have passed and he begins to see the outline of the manor in the distance. This massive area of black that's a few tints lighter than the black of the backdrop. A candle light flickers from behind the walls, a dainty heat set to the corner of a window, where a curtain no longer spreads over it. In a way it feels like an invitation, and he’s so taken up by that single flame that he’s neglected the lurking figure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the snap of a twig he looks to his side, the lantern presently held upright to the direction of the noise. Within the light there is a man, a hulking figure that dwarves him in height. His skin is the color of lifelessness, as he is so white that the color of flame reflects off him in earnest. At the sight of blood Claude drops his pocket watch, it lands on the spare rocks that line the path. Upon its landing he hears a crack and assumes it to be broken.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claude takes a step back, a pitiful thing with his wide eyes transfixed at the bountiful blood on the man’s shirt. White stained red, the cloth looks wet, as if recently being drenched in the liquids of vitality. He follows the trail of heme up the dainty fabric, leading to the hair, neck, mandible and eventually, ending up on the lips, where they too have blood spilled over them. The parting of his lips, the slivers of red dyed teeth peering through. The man’s eyes were dark and dilated, pulsing in the night life. Quite the contrast to the animal cradled in his arms. A young lamb, dead at the seams as it shows no signs of life. The man’s hand moves to the throat of the lamb, the underside of his hand casing the neck, and with it, the wound that led to its short life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking at the animal, Claude asks, “Did you drink its blood?”</span>
  <span> ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Like some sort of vampire</span>
  </em>
  <span>,’ is what he wished to add, but found the excess to be inappropriate. It is best to not incite a man who by the looks of it, just butchered an animal. He should run, get far away from here because who is to say this man wouldn’t hurt him too? The fields at this time are barren, if anything, his screams would only enrich the flourishing poppies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man stood in silence with a blank expression mounting his features, as if gorged in a stupor. “A venomous bite...” The voice that comes from those vocal cords is harrowing. “I attempted to rid it... of its poison.” He shifts the angle of his fingers to show the bite mark at the neck, two distal points, as if mimicking the bite of a snake. </span>
  <em>
    <span>A potential alibi</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who are you?” The man speaks with a hiss. The branches in the background move adding to the theatrics of the scene. Stray leaves float in the air, one so happens to brush the back of his hand. The stimulation brings him to the present, enough to provide a short answer as to what his existence is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My name is Claude Von Riegan.” His name in full holds substance, slipping past his lips like sugar water, sweet and flimsy, when it lays on a tongue. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And why exactly are you here, Sir Riegan.” The stranger steps closer into the light, and when he does, Claude can actively see how freshly the blood drips from his chin. Thick droplets falling overhead into the expanse of white fabric, where the drops saturate the insipid hue in blotches. Against all concepts of personal space he can see the dark lines underneath this man’s eyes, deep shadows that add the textures of both tiredness and keenness to the eyes. Claude swallows his saliva in place, feeling as though he’s shrinking merely at the sight of the man.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m a doctor here to see Dimitri.” He explains, regaining back the authority in his voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am the person you seek, but I on the other hand do not seek you.” Dimitri shifts his footing, settling his weight on one leg as he continues to balance the cadaver on his toned arms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claude clears his throat. “Your sister asked that I come visit you, she’s really worried about you.” Dimitri, still unmoved, merely shakes his head in disappointment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She lies.” He speaks with conviction, his expression a glowering salute. “I’ve no interest in your medicines, now, begone from here.” Dimitri speaks to Claude with disdain, failing to take into account all it took for Claude to get to this very spot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Claude’s eyebrows lower in scrutiny, his eyes showing an unpleasant emotion brewing within, something as intense as the taller man standing before him. Claude steps forward holding the lantern high between their faces. He wants Dimitri to see him for what he is, a man of integrity and intelligence; a man who can put up a brave front. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not some maid that you can dismiss when you feel unpleasant. It may have worked for you this morning but I have no intentions of letting it happen a second time. You see mister, my time is valuable, more valuable than yours to my concern.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the mention of time Dimitri kneels to the floor, one of his arms reaching out to the pocket watch but stops short of touching it. Claude notes how his fingers tense towards the object, pivoting back as if repelled. So, Dimitri reaches into his back pocket to retrieve a cloth and layers it over the watch. Claude likes to think that he’s mindful of the blood on his hand. So when the time comes to retrieve it, he’ll just sully the fabric. Though if he were more superstitious, he’d believe Dimitri to be wary of the silver, as most vampires are. But he is not superstitious, and instead, chooses to believe in one man’s act of kindness. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dimitri picks up the watch, and when he does, the blood leaks through the cloth and on to the silver, forever imprinting this moment unto the Riegan’s life. Dimitri stands and attempts to return the watch to its owner; in which the owner takes it and peers upon its terrible condition. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If your time is as valuable as you claim, then don't waste it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Green eyes scour over the watch, visually tracing every individual crevasse on the glass. Time within it has infinitely stopped, preserving the time he met Dimitri as nine fifty-two at night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I won’t. I’ll be wasting yours.” He shuts the lid and then stuffs the watch in his pocket, smirking in the face of danger.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve no interest in entertaining the company of charlatans.” Dimitri denounces. The blood on his face cracking as it dries. At this Claude begins to take his leave, waiting for the right moment to state the outcome of their fated meeting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dimitri has stated that he has no interest in being his patient, which is fine. He'll just experience firsthand how elaborate Claude is when it comes to getting around foils.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fortunate for you I’m no charlatan.” He stops at a distance of three feet. He turns around to face Dimitri, the item at hand bringing a source of light between the two of them once more. “How about you entertain the company of a friend tomorrow evening, let’s say six o’ clock?” Silence follows. Claude regards his neutrality as a concession. “I’ll be seeing you then, Dimitri.” He feigns kindness, his words sound soft but his eyes convey harshness. Once more he turns his back to his newfound friend. His swept curls frolicking with the bounce of the steps that carry him into the darkness of night, a place the moon’s light won’t reach.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The following night’s moon is crescent, its luminesce thwarted by the veil of night. Claude returned, just as he said he would, his hand leaving his side and gearing towards the door. However, before his knuckles could prattle against the wood, the door opens, ushering out the image of Dimitri. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are not welcome here.” He did not sound thrilled at his being here, no matter, Claude let him know of the arrangement ahead of time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not keen on visitors I take it.” Came Claude’s answer, something whimsical when partnered with a soft smile. “I told you that I’d be here at six.” Not amused at his answer Dimitri responds with a bitterness to his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t recall agreeing to your proposition.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To which Claude is quick to say, “I don’t recall you denying it either.” He looks up to the man, a small victory hinted in his expression. Dimitri says nothing in return, he merely looks at Claude stunned, perhaps at his quickwittedness, or gall as some would have it. Waiting to what comes next, the shorter gentleman tilts his head to the side, the fragments of loose curls slip to frame his face. His hand moves to slick them back again and align the stray pieces into place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time he’s come to witness a crack in the blond’s standoffish demeanor. No longer as aggressive, the creases of his face become undone as he attempts to partake in a much gentler approach. “I…” The blue of his eyes shifts to the side before settling on green tints once more.  “It would be for the best if you are not seen with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those words resonate with Claude, at least, with his younger self. Always meant to feel as though he didn’t belong. Two types of blood merged within him at the time of his birth and he could claim neither. Ostracized by those who he had claimed as his, family, friends, peers, and even strangers. Claude understands the sentimentality behind these words. Understands more than he’d care to verbalize in this given moment. He is aware that the streets do not speak kindly of this man </span>
  <span>(</span>
  <span>or his sister</span>
  <span>)</span>
  <span>, and as of yet, he’s not witnessed any substantial reason as to why. Perhaps they’re just victims, just as he once was, </span>
  <em>
    <span>still is</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The victims of ignorance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Could it be the loneliness that kills him so?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A kinder end than mania. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We could stay indoors, if you so desire.” A painful realization that he might have been too forward in his pursuit. He’s come to realize that the soul before him is one that requires coaxing. He continues, “whether under the stars or under a roof, the company’s exquisite either way.” A welcoming smile to portray the affection he wants. One of trust and compatibility. “I just want us to become friends, would you like the same?” And just like that he feels like a young boy again, reaching his hand out in the hopes of gaining a friend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dimitri is unable to meet Claude’s eyes this time. The recollection of memories flare up unpleasant emotions, making his eyes go dark, and just as darkly he speaks, “a monster like me... has no need for friends...” Rejection is a taste that’s almost amicable to Claude’s palate. Every no to his young heart was a knife wound, but his body has long since healed, stronger and bigger than ever. Every no now is determination, ways that he can strive to be better. He is not as easily deterred now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everyone needs a friend.” He’s saying the words he wanted to hear growing up. Words that would have made all the difference. Words that would have made a more trusting man out of him. Words that would have convinced him that the world is not a place that needs healing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blond hesitates, his grip on the door handle tense as he mulls his next set of words. The wait becomes unbearable until it no longer doesn’t because a response comes from behind the door. A voice that neither of them fit, but still, it is recognizable. A placement of white peers from the crack of the door, her body moving only slightly to make her presence known. “I see you two are to blame for all this commotion.” Her twisting of words is efficient as she moves her lips to express her next point, “pleasure to see you doctor, I was beginning to doubt your word. You’ve come to do what I asked?” The answer he gives comes with hesitance. He failed her task very early on, what he does now is for himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude brings forth a smile. What he says and what he does are polar opposites, balancing two different faces much like a coin. “I’m afraid not milady.” To busy his hands he places them behind his back. Unseen to the pair of eyes, his thumbs grind against one another, a tick. “This is more or less a personal matter.” He speaks honestly. “I’ve come for your brother but he’s rejected my advancements.”  Claude looks at Dimitri, studying his expression for any change. “You’ve endowed upon me a cruel fate. To live through another night without pleasant company, and to that I say, that I will live through another lonely night in the hopes of one day being in your company.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There it is, the reaction. Something so unexpected that it makes Dimitri’s breath hitch and tie into a knot at his throat. The chest remains locked in its expanded state as the air remains. The suaveness of Riegan literally took his breath away, evidence marked by the lack of an exhale. Dimitri’s lips part in excess, demonstrating shock at the vulnerability of Claude’s words. He speaks like a romantic, his slew of words something long time lovers would say to one another, but they were not lovers, far from it. So then why would he say such things? Simple, to bring about embarrassment. The reaction he elicits from the blond is an added reward.</span>
  <span> So pure</span>
  <span> and childlike, like a grade school confession. Something akin to slipping notes without the teacher’s knowledge -</span>
  <span>discretion</span>
  <span>- shy glances, something he willingly put out in the open in his favor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If loneliness is what troubles you, why not spend the evening with me?” A fraction of her body becomes visible behind Dimitri, the more she speaks the bolder her apparition becomes, taking dominant steps into the conversation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d be more than willing to amend what my brother couldn’t.” Her confidence seems unparalleled, but as stated previously, Claude is not someone who is easily deterred. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds lovely.” He offers a short reply. His attention goes to those who seek it and thus far, Edelgard is the one who demands it the most. Her hand perched underneath her chin, a solid foundation as her head tilts with interest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dimitri commands his sister to fetch his coat. His words leave no room for compromise. Edelgard only stares back with slight indignation. Once the sentiment subsides she turns tail to head inside the manor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She comments, “you only want something after I show interest.” Her voice faraway as it stumbles within the walls. Dimitri waits until she returns with his coat on hand. He takes it from her possession and mounts it over his shoulders as he fits the arms through the armscye. Narrow sleeves are cut high on the shoulder, fitting for this era, he’s remarkably fashionable adorning a dark long jacket whose tail reaches the back of the knees in a linear cut. For their nightly escapade, Dimitri tucks the lace neckband he wears inside his open jacket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s not something, he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Is what the brother says, and it takes Claude completely by surprise since he failed to take the implication into account. Something, as if not human or lesser than human, when in reality that’s all he is, all he will ever be. There can be humans, there can be animals, but there is nothing that exists in the inbetween. Vampires are  fantasized creatures of the inbetween -part human and part animal- crossbreeds that do not exist in this reality. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do as you will, he’s your problem now.” Edelgard dismisses herself with a slight aire of nuisance. She slams the door loud against her brother’s ear, expressing her displeased state. In response, the brother shut his eyes, clenching his fists at the worst of the noise. The old house creaks as an after effect, expected due to its wear and tear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dimitri turns to look at him. Every ounce of emotion that was once manifested is gone. Claude is no stranger to being expressionless. He’s seen it many times on his own face, but when it comes to seeing it on someone else, to this extent, it is disturbing. It is no different from a blank page. With so much empty space Claude has no idea where to begin and end his conclusions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What caused Dimitri’s change of heart? Did Claude’s words move him, or was it selfishness just as Edelgard had implied? No matter, the conclusion is the same, Claude got what he came here for, whether Dimitri is truly willing or not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edelgard’s words have just now become clear. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Claude is the problem.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Dimitri begins to take his descent on the stairs, each passing step a wordless gesture when he passes by Claude. Claude’s eyes follow the trail of Dimitri, blinking in the interim. Once he opens his eyes he sees Dimitri’s hand reaching out to him from the end of the stairs, his open palm expectant. It is then Claude notices the humble nature within the other man. It encompasses a small portion of an enormous space, the rest is filled with anger, sadness, loneliness, and things he’s yet to see.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All this shapes the person he sees before him. A man that’s tragically beautiful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude at first engages with his eyes alone, too apprehensive to quite yet touch. He’s baiting time, waiting for the moment Dimitri’s patience runs thin with him. He wants to know if this was all for show, or if Dimitri is as humble or as considerate as he now assumes. Despite his hesitation, Dimitri still showed patience. Even if all he had to do was shift his footing. Dimitri’s feet now face frontwards, making his approach more direct when he elevates his hand higher. Claude nods in understanding and takes his hand. The brush of their palms against one another a brisk feeling that soon settles into something grounding. Dimitri’s fingers grapple around his skin, nothing too forceful, just commandeering enough to alert of his unwavering presence as he leads Claude down the stairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If the young Riegan had to describe it, the best way to portray the feeling is that of ice. Cool, and with prolonged exposure, numbing. That’s how the hand atop his feels. Claude is a man of many words, but for this moment, he has none, as if Dimitri had unburied a silence from deep within. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They share a walk of relative silence. It was actually quite enjoyable not having to talk. Normally he’d feel pressured, but in this instance not sparking a conversation is not seen as a lack of interest. Though, some words are in order, at least to give some context to the plans ahead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So.” Claude praddles, a hint of playfulness in his wake. He can already feel Dimitri’s mood beginning to fluctuate once he hears a grunt pass those lips. “Does this gentleman have a last name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No answer. At least, not immediately since the sound of horses detracted Dimitri’s focus elsewhere. “Dimitri Alexander Blaiddyd. However, you are to refer to me only as Alexander.” The blond spoke plainly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alexander? But that’s his second name. His sister refers to him by his first name, and Dimitri is the name in which she gave him to use. One of the house tenants acknowledged that name, and it is the name he answered to last night. So why the sudden change? He doesn’t know for certain, and if he were to ask, he’s inclined to believe that Alexander won’t answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alexander</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Just know that I spared no expense to ensure that you enjoy every waking moment.” Claude speeds up his pace to beat him to the carriage waiting for them at the end of the path. He points to the driver before introducing him, “this is my friend, Caspar, he’ll be our chauffeur for this evening.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“ ‘Ello gentlemen!” Caspar greets with a wave of the hand. He had actually been quite enthusiastic about meeting one of the manor siblings. Though, that enthusiasm turned into offense when Alexander ignored him with relative ease and just boarded the carriage with no introduction of his own. Once Alexander’s weight settled, the coach stopped wobbling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caspar’s hand was still up, as he continued to process what had transpired. Claude will do as Mercedes does, which is pray, pray that Caspar does not make a scene out of this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aye did we sleep together last night or sumn’? Did ya pass me five shillings for some slop!?” Just then Caspar hacks up a wad of spit and chucks it to the ground where Alexander had left a footprint. “Get a load of this guy ‘ere! Just boards a man’s carriage without a ‘ello.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Things started off on the wrong foot it seems, but nothing a few well placed words can’t fix. Claude places his hand on Caspar’s knee, a comfort amidst this unpleasant situation. “I would like to offer an apology on behalf of my friend. It would do well to know that he’s had a bit of an off day.” Now whether any of that is true or not it does not matter, what matters is dropping the situation at hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s clear that Caspar doesn’t buy into it, but for argument’s sake, he let’s it go. That is, until Alexander’s voice vibrates from within the wooden interior. “Do not apologize on my behalf when I do not feel the need to. Do not speak for me. Repeat your offense and I will leave.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s comical how hard Caspar’s teeth grit. Any more force and those teeth of his would have sanded into smithereens by now. “Caspar.” Claude warns, taking away the other’s courage from escalating this further by tightening the grip on his knee. This seems to have worked. “I’ll talk to him.” His last attempt to smooth over the situation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The carriage ride has been quiet for a while now. The tension prevents them all from communicating mutually. The streets are much less crowded, not because of the time, but because recent events have filled everyone’s minds with panic. People are scared, and with good reason. No one knows who is responsible for the murder, and worst of all, no one knows if there will be another victim. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude stares at his lap in deep thought, mind drifting away to that chilling scene. Alexander took notice of the expression he conveyed, but chose not to comment on it. The brunette brings forth a tired smile, and his eyes, they remain unwavering from his lap. “It might be in your best interest to make some friends. Life is long and lonely as time passes. If you push everyone away there will be no one at your side.” The carriage shakes as they move over unsettling terrain, and their knees brush together because of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not here to make friends.” Those words sound doubtful. A script meant to be followed, but the actor that reads the lines is unconvincing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So why have you come?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The quiet lingers between them both. Claude exercises patience and waits for the answer. It may not come tonight, or tomorrow, but the truth shall be revealed eventually.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should not trust Edelgard as easily as you do.” Alexander clutches the sides of his pants, stretching the fabric into loose tidbits. “For you to be in her company is not a mistake you will recover from.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whenever Alexander speaks of his sister, it is never positive. Even the way he acts around her reveals as much. There is much Claude does not know, and will never know if he does not ask. “Are you a jealous man, Alexander?” He prods disinterestedly. To equate it to jealousy is too easy a thing.  The simplest of deductions, and judging by Alexander’s character, that’s not it. “Hm, guess not.” A lack of an answer can be just as telling as a verbal one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Non-verbal cues are sufficient. Each muscle acts as a page, the way they contort give rise to expressions. The very same expressions that lead Claude to his next statement, “you’re warning me.” His eyes are sharp when they turn to look at a tuft of blond. He dismisses his pretenses; foregoing his hospitable role for something that’s more or less him, someone who lunges in the pursuit of knowledge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Based on the newfound tension of Alexander’s body, he’s on the right track. “Against your sister no less.” The brunette speaks lower, his tone borderline on the non-believe. “And as to what reason am I to avoid her company?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lady Edelgard is quite an imposing woman with ties he dare not dream of. He imagines the same can be said ofAlexander. That being said, it is Alexander whom he met covered in blood, not Edelgard. “No answer?” A laugh. Of course Alexander would keep his silence now of all times. “Am I to believe these daring rumors of the lady and her affinity to blood?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude becomes bold in his actions. He dares to intrude upon Alexander’s personal space by leaning over him, cornering Alexander until his side presses against the carriage. With nowhere to run, the brunette took this prime opportunity to move his lips towards Alexander’s neck. Never quite touching. The trace of his presence ghosting over sensitive skin. He opens his mouth as if to bite. The prick of his incisors are quite dull compared to the creatures of folklore, and even if he doesn’t believe in them, he has to draw influence from somewhere. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mouth clamps around nothing. The clicking of his teeth causes Alexander to profoundly exhale, the tension releasing from his body. Tension spikes up again when Claude nears his ear, mouthing some words privately so Caspar won’t hear. “I happen to believe that you pose a bigger threat to me than your sister, my dear Alexander, and yet... I am not afraid of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Powerful words given by a powerful man. Claude’s power is not derived from strength, it comes from his wit and cunning abilities. He begins to move back to his corner of the carriage, giving Alexander ample time and space to ponder upon his words. And yet, an answer came too quick for his liking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You will be.” Comes the answer. Repentive for the sorrows that have yet come to pass. Despite that, not for a single moment does Claude think that this is a mistake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thought you would know by now that I’m not so easily discouraged.” He combs back one of the stray hairs that have fallen over his face. He is now immaculate. Without flaw in his presentation, since that’s one of the few things that matter now. “I, for one, have high hopes for you.” He continues, his palms coming to rest over his knees. Claude turns his head to face Alexander, and it is upon doing so that he notices an intense focus on his neck. Mostly on the superficial cervical muscle, knowing all too well that underneath it hides the jugular vein.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Interesting</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude manages to unfasten a button, making the fabric around his neck less constricting. His collar drapes to either side, revealing the tempting layout beneath, a cultivation of veins and arteries hiding beneath the stretch of skin and muscle. His clavicle is particularly exposed as he wafts the front placket, giving himself slight, refreshing air. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Because it is so terribly hot all of a sudden</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would focus less on the future and more on the present if I were you. Just relax, we’ll be at the park so-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The park!?” Alexander does not sound pleased. “No. I do not wish to go. There are too many people, too much that goes on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re far too young to be acting so grim.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t go.” Alexander sounds adamant, no matter, Claude will attempt to wedge his reasoning in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dimi- I mean, Alexander.” He appears to be a fellow of sound mind, shouldn’t be too difficult to appeal with logic, right? “Having more people is ideal, it deters petty crime. Besides, after that girl’s unfortunate passing, the amount of people that populate the park is less. You have nothing to wo-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another interruption would come of it. “Turn the carriage a round.” Alexander folds his arms around his chest, closing himself both off physically and verbally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude feels the carriage slowing speed until it inevitably turns to a halt. “What’s all this? Do one of yas gotta take a leak or sumn?” Caspar has caught on but not entirely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quick to clear his throat, Claude vocalizes, “actually Caspar, change of plans. We want to go somewhere more private. Can you take us somewhere that’s enjoyable but sees too few a people? I’m relying on your knowledge of the city to leave a good impression on my friend here, considering I don’t know the area too well.” He holds his breath as he waits for Alexander to reject the improvised plan, but when no such objection comes, he lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The driver turns to face them, his eyes bouncing between them both until they finally settle on Alexander. Seconds pass until Caspar counters with a smirk, the goofiest of its kind. There is nothing pleasant about that face. “Oh yeah. I kno’ just the place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow that answer didn’t sit well with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His gut feeling had been correct. The place Caspar brought them to is less than desirable. Well, it’s not exactly a building, but more or less, a location. When they exit the carriage what surrounds them is a lack of pleasantries. Their path led to spacious alleyways where dumpsters lit by flames are used for warmth. The stench of burning trash is obscene to the senses. That very stench, that miasma, is a reason for sickness to bedevil these unfortunate people. To prevent the stench from entering his body, he begins to breathe through his mouth. A number of people laid on the ground, some to sleep and others waiting for the effects of substances to wear off, as dignified by their blabber and troubled eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just keep going straight on that there alley and make a left. You’ll spot a bar there. Nuthin’ fancy but if yer lucky yer bound to see a brawl or two. Pretty fun stuff” Fun stuff he says. This is beyond the meaning of fun, he’s taken them to one of the most dangerous areas in all of the city. “Fair warning: Don’t forget to keep hands to yer pocket boys! Ya might lose what’s inside from a pickpocket.” A cackle as he swats Claude’s shoulder, causing him to slip forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey Caspar.” Claude has to keep control of his voice to prevent his irritation from slipping. “Why not join us? We’d put your expertise to good use.” He bites the inside of his cheek to stop the words at that. Within a short timespan the driver denies the offer at hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An’ leave mah carriage unattended? ’m good.” With a forceful strut of the leather the horses begin to get a move on with a drall speed. “Try not ta get in too much trouble before I pick yas up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alexander didn’t wait long before getting a move on. He demonstrates far more confidence than Claude at this particular moment. Fear is not the problem, it’s the crumbling expectations that he has set for himself. He’s used to plans going awry, so there’s always a backup plan, and a backup plan for the backup plan. But now he offers nothing, no words that satiate the rough exposure they are amidst. How could he when they just walked by a man who slipped a few shillings to a dame and then proceeded to lift up her skirt, in public no less! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You seem uncomfortable.” Comments Alexander, unnerved by the depravity of it all. Claude should be used to these sights, he helps many people who lead these lifestyles, but it doesn’t make it any less heartfelt. Hearing about what the community does and seeing they undo themselves are two different things. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t like being in unfavorable situations.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve no one to blame but yourself.” They make the turn, and at the end of said turn, they spot a congregation of buildings paired side by side. As expected, the buildings are under no favorable conditions. There are tables and chairs on the outside, though, a limited few. In the surrounding area there are people loitering outside closed doors, conversing, with weapons tucked underneath their belts. Visible only through the odd outlines. The pair seems to gather the attention of these men as they lay claim over some seats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those men in particular speak nothing of it, but they look at them, fully aware of them existing in a place they don’t belong. It’s hard to feel at ease when someone is watching your every move. With whispers that speak so superficially about a person. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is then that a woman approaches them, notepad on hand and asks, “what can I get for you boys?” With no prior knowledge of the menu, Claude asks what they happen to serve at this locale. The answer varies from different brews and consumables, filling meals that will leave any patron satisfied. And yet, based on the location, he won’t be expecting any quality goods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll have a beer to start off.” He says resting his chin on laced fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alexander’s answer is much less enthusiastic in kind, “I don’t want anything.” Claude merely frowns at his sobriety.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll change your mind once you try the bread, darling.” The waitress cooed as her hand went to Alexander’s cheek, fingers already prepped for a pinch, but he swatted her hand away before she got too close. The slap is heard with relative loudness, and she, rubbing the back of her hand, calls him a “bloody bastard.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Upon her departure, one of the lurking men comes forward and absentmindedly grabs one of the chairs and drags it over to where they sat. He lodges it in a way that the back posts are placed front and center. The man then sat, his legs spreading over the seat, lurching forward to be supported by the rails of the chair.  “Is our food not to your liking?” The sound of his voice is a deep and upsetting thing. Vibrations ringing low and turbulent. This is the sound of a man who's seen bad things and done worse. His hand goes to his back, hidden away from sight until he pulls out a dagger and stabs the table with it. The wood chips with the penetrating iron and Claude could only gulp in response.  “Or is blood more suited to your tastes? I’ll tell you what, you won’t find that ‘ere you filthy bat.” Exclaims the man, letting go of the knife, but still leaving it protruding on the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blond’s glare is as sharp as any blade. The way his eye squints in malice is as good as any threat made. Alexander imposes his hand on the table and pushes it, giving him more of an area to stand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gentlemen please!” Claude takes the role of the mediator for a second time tonight. His hand grasps at the blade’s pommel, forcibly yanking the weapon out. He does not hold it as a threat, but as a sign of neutrality, serving it flat on his palm as a peace offering. “We are civilized men, we need not return to our baser instincts.” He turns to face the man who had threatened them. Disciplined and unwavering, he will speak only of the truth he knows. “I implore you think wisely, the both of you must, especially you sir. If my friend were truly a vampire, do you think you could see him off with this feeble a thing?” He allows the knife to roll from his hand to clank to the ground. “He’d slaughter you all like pigs.” This struck the miscreant’s nerve because the expression he wears now is one of fear. “But that won’t happen because vampires my friend here is not a vampire. They don’t exist. However, what will happen is that his very imposing family will retaliate and certainly make your life, and the life of everyone you know, an existential hell.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alexander picks up the dagger and steps up to the man. “Do you wish to chance it?” Alexander’s threatening aura permeates the air and becomes so thick that it can be cut with said dagger. Confident in the answer, Alexander returns the knife by forcing it back on the man’s hand, and forcing his digits to clamp around it.    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My apologies fellas, do enjoy the rest of your night.” The miscreant dips his head to hide his gaze underneath the brim of his hat. So suddenly losing his spine at the odds against him, either way, he will lose far more than he would hope to gain. He scampers off back to his people leaving Claude and Alexander alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude can’t help but find the evening to be comical when everything has gone absolutely wrong. He laughs as an outlet to unleash his frustration and misfortune, but hey, at least he isn’t going through it alone. “I see now why you wanted to avoid large crowds. Does this happen often?” He comments almost apologetically. Claude gets his beer and is all the more happier for it, until he drinks it. He’s got half the mind to spit it out due to its insipid warmth, but he's paying coin for this so he cannot allow it to go to waste. He forces himself to swallow and disrelishes the after taste. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Warm beer? How criminal.” He chides the glass it was served in before setting it down on the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” An odd question to be asked, truly. Claude understands not the basis for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because serving warm beer should be penalized. Do you wish to try it to understand my point of view?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enough of your dawdle, why did you defend me, Riegan?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Riegan</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Even if it’s part of his name it still feels so impersonal. Perhaps that’s why he insists on being called Alexander, to provide a severance between the two. To hinder the usage of first names, to prevent them from knowing each other deeply. Dimitri -no- Alexander, never wanted his friendship. He’s made it clear beforehand, but now it is too obvious to ignore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some minds take longer to change than others. “As opposed to doing what? Nothing? As long as I am able I will not allow someone to succumb to harm, especially if that someone is my </span>
  <em>
    <span>friend</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Friend, he uses that term loosely. That being said, Claude would not make a terrible friend, he just needs to get something to make his time worthwhile, information will do. Friendship comes second to his inquisitiveness, the things he wishes to inquire are only to further his gain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude judges the other’s reaction and finds another crack in his usual dour appearance. The beginning of a smile morphing into shape. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brisk moments past, at least, they feel brisk with the aid of ale. The fermentation makes not for a pleasant taste, but it is the after effects that makes it delightful. That sweet buzzing, just mild enough to let him lax, but not to the extent of naivety. Always with a hold on his merits, he’s never been a person to make a fool of himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The glass now sits on the empty side. Droplets of warm brew linger at the bottom of the cup. He feels thirsty for more. A dryness at his lips that can only be satiated by the yellowing of fermented grain. A hint of pink dusts his cheeks, a pretty coloration so slim underneath the moon’s radiance. A luster of pale light blesses them both, but most kindly on Alexander, at least amongst Claude’s tipsy haze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude’s smile is earnest, outlandishly so when his lips spread wide. “Are you enjoying your evening?” A bit of a drowsy feeling, he hums after his question with eyes half lidded. A different woman comes to serve more drinks without a proper request. She fills Claude’s glass until it overflows, its dripage muddling the counter with its bittersweet essence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The brunette fails to touch his drink after such a tactless display, and instead, slings his fingers together. His hands united in a restful position.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She moves to her next target then, which is Alexander. Holding the pitcher out she leans real close to his ear, smearing what pigment she had on her lips on the cartilage of his ear. “My colleagues wanted to apologize for the earlier mishap, so they sent me to settle the debt personally.” She presses their bodies awfully close together, uniting like two contrasting paints to create an unfitting color. “How about we go somewhere more private, handsome?” She made the exclusion of the third party </span>
  <span>(</span>
  <span>Claude</span>
  <span>)</span>
  <span> very obvious. It’s truly been quite the while since someone had disregarded him so blatantly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude’s open mouthed smile becomes a closed one. Soon enough, the upward curve on his lips turns linear. The best he could do to mask his displeasure. Under the effects of alcohol, his emotions are felt more acutely and scarcely may he guise them. This is one of those moments in which he does not wish to name that which he feels. This feels much like jealousy, but calling it so will deem it true of its calling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But why this emotion as compared to all the rest? Perhaps because Alexander does not reprimand her proximity as he would had it been Claude. He knows that Alexander’s silence cannot be speculated as attraction or willingness. Perhaps the man is less willing to correct due to the altercation it had previously resulted in. He wants to save face and save them both the trouble. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That is the way in which one would normally think, but Claude is under no normal circumstances, he is partly inebriated and uninhibited to act out on his selfishness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So where would we be going?” Claude asks, placing an emphasis on the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She hesitates before answering, evidence of her shaken state by the bead of sweat glazing past the brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um, they didn’t say anything about entertaining two men.” And the word entertaining is used quite liberally. Alexander appears to be quite phased at the hints provided that he seemed to shake in place. From behind a locket of gold, his heavenly blue eyes peer at the grassland of green that belongs to Claude for stability.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Despite who said what, I believe that I too deserve compensation.” Just to what he wants, he didn’t hint. It was up to either of them to take the bait and pick at his magnificus mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ladies first, it seems. “Well, what is it that you want?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude begins to tap his foot to go along with the hearty singing of a drunk. His head bobs with every verse, trying his best to follow the tempo through the slurrings. To a drunk man this sounds like music, something that must be appreciated through dance, now to a sober audience, the response could be different. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why a dance of course!” His hand reaches out as an invitation, one he hopes that Alexander would take, just as he had taken his upon those stairs. “Alexander?” He asks, too hopeful for a yes that won’t ever come. And when he was proven right, he swallows the bitterness away. The only thing that touches his palm is the cold air and that leaves him wanting for his male companion, but he will not beg for him. Instead, he tries for the lady who accompanies him. A fine woman draped over his shoulder like fine jewelry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She takes pity on him and takes his hand after setting the pitcher down, both moving to an open space where they dance the minutes away joyously. With his hand following the natural curve of her spine, it comes to rest at the dip of her waist where he leads her in slow siding steps. They commence to move around in circles, orbiting around one another like lovers do in a performance. He catches a glimpse of Alexander. A lone man by preference, he watches Claude and Claude alone. This could have been him. He could have been the one dancing with Claude, the one to feel the lean muscles shifting with every move, especially as the footwork draws them nearer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> But he chose not to, so now Claude has to show him the extent of his mistake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the more upbeat portions of the songs, their steps were more hurried, the soles of their feet ascending from the ground in mild hops. Jumping side by side to cover more surface area. Her arms are in the air as she twirls, and he bends the knee for when she eventually returns to him. In dance they have chemistry, but outside of that they have nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once they are done dancing their chests are left heaving. He takes mouthfuls of air until the pace of his heart relents to a regular pace. He turns to the person who had indulged him for a moment’s time, looking to exchange a word of thanks, and she in a way, seems thankful for the nature of his request. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for this dance, milady.” He takes this opportunity to kiss the back of her palm in earnest. They may have started off on the wrong foot but after mingling steps, they finally got along on the right foot. The girl smiles, her other hand comes to grace the shell of her ear where she comes to ruffle a decorative feather. She then blinks once, and then a second time in surprise as her eyes wander to the general direction Alexander had been at. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where did your friend go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His head turns too fast at the revelation in hopes that I’d be some kind of twisted joke, but it’s not. A once normal stare widens by this unprecedented outcome. He stands too aloof, overcompensating due to being debilitated by the effects of the bitters.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>Alexander is gone. </b>
</p><p>
  <span>He really left without a word goodbye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude feels something sharp at his back, sliding down and tearing through the fabric of his outerwear. The sounds of ripping fibers is jarring to hear, to the extent of rendering him sober. No movement, no dialogue, because neither of those things will work in his favor now. He is severely outmatched, so of course he doesn’t put up a fight. Also something else that works against him, he’s a new face, a newcomer, a life of no worth, one with a lack of powerful connections.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gulps as he feels the point much proximal to his spine with only a layer of vest to get between the blade and skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now returns the voice of an earlier miscreant. His sound chilling, more deadly than the knife he holds in hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Speaking of compensation, we’re demanding ours.” </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Dimitri’s reason for leaving won’t be touched until much later in the story (as most things will be). Just wanted to inform readers of that because I don’t want people to think that it never gets addressed. It will. </p><p>On that same note, I want to explain that Dimitri wanting to be called by his second name is a means for him to keep his emotional distance from people. He doesn’t want to get attached, and to him a name is a way to show his attachment.<br/>He’s a vampire whose lived hundreds of years, outlived many friends. He’s very hesitant to start new with mortals because of that.<br/>I have reasons for my wacky ideas! Speaking of which, that cliffhanger huh.</p><p>Hope you all enjoy this week’s chapter!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Art for this chapter is provided by my wonderful partner,  <a href="https://twitter.com/alciedoodles">Neyla!</a>. Please give her a follow she's worth every click. Her artistic depiction of the scene went above and beyond I truly have no words. </p>
<p>That being said, this chapter, and art piece, does contain a minor wrist injury, and as a result, blood.</p>
<p>Hope you enjoy this week's chapter! Follow me on  <a href="https://twitter.com/whorerormovie">twitter</a>  if anything.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Work the following day comes with an extra layer of difficulty because the hours of the night that shunned previously provided him with an ill fitted end. The pocket watch his father had gifted him is no longer under his possession as it was taken by thieves for ‘their troubles.’ Though he doubts that they’d fetch a good price for it considering the poor condition it was under. Claude had managed to get the blood stains out, but unfortunately, the cracking of glass and the halted ticks of time is not something he can undo with his meager skills.</p>
<p>The memento may no longer be his, but what is his are the fresh sets of bruises that decorate his flanks. It hurts to breathe. Every inhale causes the surrounding muscles encasing his lungs to expand, and that sends a sharp pain coursing through his body. Every contusion was the result of a kick or punch, maybe it was both, honestly he cannot recall at this point. He kept his eyes closed throughout the ‘lesson’.</p>
<p>And what exactly had his lesson been? That the watch is no longer his, much like this life doesn’t feel like his own. He has a debt to society and that price must be paid with blood. To feel what they feel, the humiliation, the helplessness, the unfairness of it all, in that moment, Claude had felt what every lower class citizen had felt in the many years that came before him. He felt bested, beat down and reduced to zilch; feelings he had not felt since he was a child.</p>
<p>The beating had been a transformative experience. He was not angry at them, they are a product of a corrupt system. In fact, he feels motivated to do better, to <em> be </em>better for all of those who are suffering like him in this exact moment.</p>
<p>Even if that means coming into work with a busted lip. The injury stung, and to alleviate it, he had his tongue go through the split lip to feel the chunk that went missing. To stop him from doing so, or else it would never heal, Marianne had patched him up with a bit of gauze and put a bandaid over it to seal it in place. For quite a small cut the bandaid had been triple in size, covering a portion of his lip and preventing a full range of motion when he spoke.</p>
<p>Now when it came to concealing the swelling and discoloration of his eye, there was just no doing so. A puffiness to the under eye area is an underlying thing, the bruising, however, is more prominent as it extends to the tear duct of his eye. From there the damage spreads to the eye itself, having the white sclera become red as the result of a busted blood vessel. His eye feels fine (albeit for the tenderness when he lifts his eyebrows) it just doesn’t look fine.</p>
<p>“Dr. Riegan, I really think you should go home.” Comes from Mercedes’ worried mouth. There is an additional thing that she didn’t claim, something that was evident to the three of them, that as he is now, he would do nothing more than scare their patients. </p>
<p>“And do what exactly, miss Martritz? You expect me to stay home to simply rot within my walls? Thank you but I rather not, I am of far more use out here.” He sends her a sheepish smile. The show of his teeth, the wide spreading of his lips, he feels everything so acutely. That ardor from his lip, the very same one concealed underneath gauze and a bandaid, spreads to every nerve. It hurts, but despite it, he still persists because anything is better than doing nothing.</p>
<p>He struggles up a set of stairs. With every pull of the lower muscles comes a dull ache that stretches up his sides. Claude winces even with the additional help of his nurses who support him. He feels them in either side of his person, their appendages fastening around his mid and arms, maintaining him close and steady. Those couple of steps up had left him winded and heaving in the standstill. It takes a moment for him to reconfigure. When he feels capable of standing on his own, he requests for his aides to unhand him, and they do so with much delay.</p>
<p>Claude props one of his arms against the door frame, causing him to brace against it. and with the other, he stacks his knuckles against the door itself, to elude his presence in the form of tender knocks. In such close a distance he can hear shuffling from behind the door. The incomprehensible whispers from within it, they do not escape him. He knocks again, a little louder this time. </p>
<p>The hushes are not filtered from within such thin walls. He turns to look at Mercedes, and then to Marianne, they all wear the same expression of confusion, something incomprehensible. He knocks again, more reassured this time.</p>
<p>Lids close with haste but open just as quickly with the crack of the door. A face peeks from the opening, a woman, frightened and uncomfortable by people she already knows. Claude had treated her kids a few days prior, thought he could pay them a visit and check out their progress. </p>
<p>“Please leave, doctor.” Her voice wavers and she avoids eye contact. All he can see from her is a fragment of her face and part of the hand that holds the door open.</p>
<p>“Is everything okay?” He asks, because of course he does, who wouldn’t amidst such an eerie reveal.</p>
<p>The mother sticks out her head more and looks side to side. She looks afraid, now whether she’s afraid of him or someone else, he just doesn’t know. She looks to the ground for a moment, her mouth curling into sad waves. Constantly moving in a tremble, her lips, they are unsure on how to move next until the moment words depart.</p>
<p>“I’m eternally grateful for what you’ve done for me children, doctor, but please leave. I don’t want any trouble.” A woman bereft of happiness, these words, they aren’t easy for her to claim. “There are rumors that you were seen with the man of the manor. That you have fallen victim to his charm.”</p>
<p>“-he is but a mere friend-” She knows, but how? </p>
<p>“By befriending a fiend of the night you have placed us all in grave danger!” Decisively, she slammed the door on his face, sealing alongside it the potential of discussion.</p>
<p>He’s shocked to say the least. Claude had never expected this outcome to stem from his private affairs. Who he chose to spend his time with should be of no one's concern, but it seems like the people here are made of glass, made to be transparent. To have no secrets of their own. Claude cannot relate, he is tinted and hard to see through. However, he cannot live by his rules anymore, so if he were to be a glass he’d be a mirror. A reflection, masterful in the way he copies, he knows how to behave, how to fit the part, but the reflection is not the person, it’s not something anyone can fully grasp.</p>
<p>Upset by the interaction he begins to take his leave, which prompts both Mercedes and Marianne to nip at his heels. They reach out for him, knowing that he’s not too stable as of yet, but his pace progresses out of their reach. It would not be a difficult task for them to match his speed being in able condition and all, but they knew he wished to be left alone, the words need not leave his mouth. </p>
<p>“Please do be careful.” Murmured Marianne from up the steps. Claude knows that he should say something to put their minds at ease, but at this very moment, he does not have the capacity. And so he starts his slow trek through the city slums, a change in his gait as he walks by those who are less fortunate than him. Some look his way while some avoid his presence entirely, as if they know his social ties and the danger that comes with it (a danger he himself does not think exists). </p>
<p>Originally, when Claude left he had no particular destination in mind, but the more he thinks about yesterday’s events, and the results thereafter, the most logical thing to do is visit the manor. He may not be welcomed, and he is expectant of that outcome, but as long as the miss of the manor is there she may entertain him. </p>
<p>Is it pettiness that drives him to purposely undermine Alexander’s warning? Perhaps. All that matters to him now is gaining a bit of insight and he will only get that through either confronting the man who abandoned him, or the woman who thinks lesser of him.  </p>
<p>When miffed he always tends to be more direct. There is no reading between the lines, nor a sprinkle of tease to flavor his tongue. His words are minced with the sharpest of knives, leaving behind edges that can finely cut too. </p>
<p>He arrives at the manor, tired as can be when he knocks at the door. After a pair of knocks he is allowed inside with little restrictions, and this, obviously surprises him. His expression shifts to that of incredulousness as Hubert steps aside to allow him entry. A silent consent. Nothing had needed to be said, and yet, Claude felt the need to say something to the man that spoke so crudely to him.</p>
<p>“You’d willingly let a mouse into your home? Well I do hope you have a bit of cheese lying around for me.” A wink from his good eye. He’s not used to winking with it so it comes out a bit botched. The other eye, it too strains from the extertion.</p>
<p>“Poison is a meal most befitting for you.” Ah, so it is. He’s dabbled in his own share of toxic concoctions during his early study days. Can’t say his body relishes the memory fondly. Hubert places his hand on his abdomen, a fine white leather glove presses inwards into the hollow of his gut, causing wrinkles to set on the fabric of his long coat. “Worry not.” He continues. “We’ve set traps for plague ridden pests such as you.”</p>
<p>Claude smiles at those words. A trap sprung that will lead to his decapitation, all he has to do is bite. But no such thing will occur today, he’s smarter than he pretends to be, and Hubert knows this too, that’s why they toy with one another so effortlessly.</p>
<p>“Whether dead or alive, a rat can still bring pestilence.” Words hot with a spark, it ignites a fire that will maintain his insides warm through this cold encounter. When he steps inside with hands properly placed at his back, the pull of muscles underneath his arms causes an ache. The light from the outside starts to wane when the door creeps to a close, locking him within the manor’s obscure lighting.</p>
<p>“So it can.” Speaks Hubert, right before the manor becomes enclosed from the afternoon’s light.</p>
<p>Claude inspects the interior as his steps carry him further inside. It feels crowded with an assortment of items. Many chairs act as pieces of decoration, causing the space to feel cramped. This manor retains a feeling of antiqueness just as it had on the outside. Guess it brings about a form of personality. He even finds that the walls are littered with picture frames, memories captured onto film and preserved. It serves many purposes, mainly to preserve the memories of loved ones. Though, in this house, the intent seems sinister. Each picture had been sabotaged by flames. The face of each person burned out and forever marked out of existence. Who would dishonor their ancestors in such a way, even worse, who would dishonor themselves that way? </p>
<p>His fingers go to touch the glass, he feels the coolness that exudes from it transfer onto his skin. The tips of his fingers press further in, wishing to permeate the thin layer of glass to grasp the crisp edges of the hole bored where Edelgard’s face used to be. At least, he assumes that was Edelgard based on the stylings of the hair (which is identical to how she wears it now). Also worth a mention, current film only captures images in black and white, and at the time this picture had been taken, her hair appears much darker than it does now, and her clothes did not appear as of this time period. </p>
<p>Claude moves on to the next thing that captures his inquisitive mind, a cloth, following the grooves of an oval shape. He moves to touch the fabric, the pads of his fingers pinching the softness of it. Claude can tell this is luxurious. Many of the people in this city cannot afford to be this flimsy in their purchases. Why even have something if it’s just going to be covered up? Speaking of which, Claude lifts the cloth to reveal what’s underneath. He half expects it to be a mirror, and when he gazes upon the thick wooden frame and a glimpse of his reflection, he knows that it is indeed a mirror.</p>
<p>“Have you not been taught to look and not touch?” There is a hand at his shoulder, it’s weight taking him out from the confines of his mind.</p>
<p>“I have different methods of appreciating things up close.” Is Claude’s response. His thumb lifting to unpinch, and in turn, release the fabric back into stagnancy. His eyes trail the outline of the intrusive hand, turning his head accordingly to follow the juncture that leads him to Hubert’s face. He holds his gaze, indecipherable, he is tempted enough to prolong the conversation but Hubert doesn’t budge, instead he says “follow me,” as he relinquishes his hold from the visitor. </p>
<p>Claude tails shortly behind him until he’s gestured to stop by Hubert’s hand. Claude does as he’s instructed, staying within the hallways, concealed and out of sight.</p>
<p>“You have a visitor.” The heftiness of Hubert’s voice falls to the floor as he dips in a bow. This introduction lacked an exchange of names, setting up animosity from both ends. Hubert did not hint as to who the visitor was, and just as troublesome, Claude did not know who he would walk upon. If he had to take a guess it would be Edelgard, if only for her affinity to the skeletal man. To add to his guess, Alexander should be sleeping at the present considering it is still daylight hours (though the idea that he sleeps come morning had been debunked the first time he stepped foot on their porch).</p>
<p>Claude takes the cue and walks into the living room, where he confirms that his suspicions had been partly right. Edelgard is indeed there, and in addition, so is her brother. They appear to be sharing tea and conversation, something Claude had intruded upon. </p>
<p>“Doctor?” Edelgard’s violet eyes widened in surprise, it is distinctive from her usual controlled expression. She then separates cup from lip to set it down on a porcelain plate just an arms length away. She visibly swallows, committing the taste of boiled leaves onto her palate. “What an unexpected surprise.” </p>
<p>Claude makes his lack of interest in Alexander obvious by focusing his attention on Edelgard, and only Edelgard. He does the very thing Alexander opposed and he does so confidently.</p>
<p>“Surprising but not unwelcome, I hope.” He smiles yet again, and unfortunately, he feels a tear that brings about blood. Feels the moistness from the crimson dollop that is then absorbed by the gauze. It stings and his upper lip twitches. A fault in his demeanor, one he hopes to recover from.</p>
<p>“What business do you have here?” He expected Alexander to sound angry, borderline hateful for doing what he opposed at any opportunity given, but Alexander doesn’t. He sounds sad. Could he be alluding as to why he was here and not at home resting? The injuries on Claude’s person are hard to miss, especially when the worst of it is at display on his face.</p>
<p>Can a person such as Alexander feel guilt considering he’s the one that left Claude at the mercy of the wolves?</p>
<p>“I actually came to pay you a visit, milady.” Claude works to close the distance between Edelgard and him. He gets ever so near to touch her hand, and she, ever the understanding one, elevated hers so that he may partake in a greeting’s kiss.</p>
<p>He sees Alexander move from his peripheral, his fingers wrapping around the entirety of Claude’s wrist with such ease. With the tug comes pain, something sharp and momentary as Alexander stands up to lead Claude into unexplored portions of the manor without his own say so.</p>
<p>He keeps up but with difficulty. The ache spreads up his arm, tensing the muscles until the sensation is replaced altogether with pure pain. “Release me.” Claude says soft-spoken. Could Alexander hear him? He wonders when the other continues to persist, showing no signs of acknowledging his request. </p>
<p>“Let go.” He tries more sternly this time. In addition, he stops moving his legs to create some resistance. This only worked momentarily because when Claude refused to move, Alexander just made him move by forcing his wrist. The pull made it feel as though his shoulder would dislocate, that’s how intense everything feels now. </p>
<p>A tender body not fit for a robust heart.</p>
<p>A feeble cry leaves his lips once Alexander opens a door and shoves them both inside recklessly. A loud breath exits his lips at the entry, evening out the further Claude studies his surroundings. It takes but a moment for his eyes to adjust, taking into account the plentiful bookshelves that line the walls. Ancient literature only appears so with the thin veil of dust. Cobwebs also add to its neglected ambiance, making it known that these books have not known touch within recent times.</p>
<p>Vividly aware that they are both joined from hand to wrist, Claude turns to meet Alexander’s gaze, but he is not met halfway. Instead, his face is disregarded for the more worthy spectacle of his wrist. A beating pulse underneath the weight of a thumb, the two go hand in hand like dancers. Alexander’s thumb follows the vein, so blue beneath the stretch of skin, he presses it down flat, adding slight pressure and creating friction. Alexander hums as curiosity comes to the forefront. </p>
<p>As he moves his thumb the bruising imprint of the wrist begins to take form. Specs of violet formed a ring around Claude’s wrist. They are finger shaped in which they are blotchy. Shapes meant to match Alexander’s hands. This pain that is meant to align them both has yet to make itself known. Still, Claude continues to study Alexander’s expression. It is the most emotive he’s seen the man behave thus far. The outlines of his thin lips parched when his lips part, each sharp intake of breath a whizzing through the cracks of his lips. “I’m.” The man stammers. “I’m sorry, I fear I do not know my own strength.” Remorse if he’s ever heard it. It comes in a pitiful form, under the guise of a despondent man apologizing to someone inferior. </p>
<p>Just now Alexander begins to rub circles into Claude’s skin. Encouraging blood flow where circulation was once ceased. It is comforting, this Claude will acknowledge, but he will not become complacent to the one who has caused it. No matter the intent, whether right or wrong, he will not allow someone to make a fool out of him a second time. </p>
<p>In the slim opportunity where Alexander’s touch felt lighter, Claude yanked his hand away, and felt the reprimand of his movement with a scratch. That very scratch manifests a burning sensation along the side of his wrist. A bit of skin scraped clear by a morsel of a nail. Each bit of blood converges into a droplet that grows bigger as the seconds pass. To him this is nothing, just another wound to add to his lengthening list of injuries, but to Alexander, this is far greater.</p>
<p>Wherever this other man is mentally, Claude cannot reach. With eyes as murky as they are, they cannot see Claude’s hand reaching out to end this reverie. From where he stands, Claude can see the smear of crimson on the edge of Alexander’s nail. A sample served on a white nail, something meant to mimic a silver platter, tantalizing enough to urge the blond to taste while it’s still fresh. </p>
<p>Alexander’s tongue moves past the lips when his finger inches closer, once near enough his tongue swipes to collect. A transfer happens where blood moves to the tongue, and from there, it dissolves and merges in his tongue. </p>
<p>In this study room there is no such thing as a feast, but this, Claude considers, comes close enough. </p>
<p>Alexander sucks his finger into his mouth to ingest the rest of Claude’s taste. His cheeks hollowing with the suction the deeper it goes in. A sound wedged between hunger and arousal, this seeding groan unsettles Claude to the fullest. Alexander resembles a feral animal whose hunger is being satiated for the first time. Such an appetite for blood, where did such intense craving come from? Perhaps he truly is abnormal. Even so, vampires have no room in the world of science, for they do not exist. </p>
<p>Even with this supposed proof, Claude still holds his reservations.</p>
<p>He watches for a moment longer. Hiding the disgust within him as Alexander opens his mouth to draw breath, from there he clearly sees how the tongue wraps around the tip of the digit, digging deep into the nail and lubricating it with saliva. </p>
<p>“Alexander?” </p>
<p>No response. Alexander is a leech, unresponsive to anything that’s not blood. </p>
<p>Claude becomes bolder and holds out his wrist. The scrape had long since stopped bleeding but the blood still lingered. No longer a droplet but a line as it trickled down the side. An enigmatic smell that causes the nostrils to flare. Alexander opens his eyes in bewilderment, his pupils actively shrinking at the sight of blood. A mouth so hungry that it continues to salivate. </p>
<p>Claude is uncertain but he steps forward anyways, holding his wrist up in an offering. Prey and predator, predator and prey, one cannot exist without the other. </p>
<p>Alexander fights. Not with Claude but with himself. The internalized struggle is visible when the jaw clenches. A taut line pulls everything to a shut. Alexander’s hands are out and forward, ready to accept the offering with open palms, but he doesn’t. Jut digits twitch, the result of keeping the desire at bay. </p>
<p>Claude plants his hand on Alexander’s, his veins much like growing roots, expanding into several pathways beneath the soil of his skin. Alexander will spill from his mouth a transparent liquid, it will nourish and cause Claude’s blood to sprout like a tree. The color of red autumn leaves will leave his body, and discard into an awaiting mouth. All it is is a give and take, Claude gives and Alexander takes, that’s all there is to it. </p>
<p> </p>
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<p>Pallid digits string themselves around his hand, the thumb pressing into the meat of the palm as fingers support the underside. Claude stands closer as he raises his hand, facilitating the distance between the two of them so that the other would not have to slouch, but Alexander continues to do so extensively. A canopy of blond hairs as they fall over Alexander’s face, swathing shame over his hesitant expression. Even throughout the quivering of lips, the man who holds him continues to be otherwise immobile. The shallow breaths that draw near his ears give vulnerability, and tells Claude that Alexander is indecisive.  </p>
<p>No one is stopping him, the only one inhibiting his desires is himself, his own worst enemy. </p>
<p>“Alexander.” Claude sounds more certain of himself now, and the man before him seems to have picked up on it. It gives a renowned strength, a thing that must be acted to the fullest. Alexander’s mouth goes agape, giving his tongue ample room to dart forward over the stretch of skin. So close to the scrape he hesitates, and instead goes further to the side where the skin had gone unskirmished. Dipping his head, his tongue caresses the skin there, dodging over the wound and heading to the bruises instead. The tip of Alexander’s tongue is persistent, a blunt force that glides over the colored flesh. He groans, and Claude feels it vibrate on his skin and spreading over him in a shudder. When that happens, Claude can’t help but draw out a whine of his own. </p>
<p>It tickles. Especially as the spit spreads over him like a balm. With time his body adjusts to the sensation, no longer able to differentiate when it tickles and when it does not, the excitement becomes stale. </p>
<p>Now there is a craving for a different kind of touch. He feels teeth on either side of his wrists, pressing, but never too deep, not to the point of cutting. Each tooth is diligent as it wraps over his circumference. Teething around him, drawing out the appetite with a nibble until Claude had the common sense to urge him on. </p>
<p>“Alexander.” Said aloud for the third time. Each time said with a varied infliction, and each time he garnered a different response. Alexander responds best when Claude is stern and leaves no room for compromise. Responds best when there is no play on words. A direct approach is the best approach when it comes to Alexander, he’s come to learn this now. </p>
<p>A shaky breath pours over his skin. He’s able to feel the dampness each time Alexander breathes out. There is less teeth now, as if retracting his will to bite and replacing it with another. A gesticulation of friction as he slathers his lips over the expanse of the forearm. The blood transfers onto lips in a smear, inking in the colorless bits of a face with a drying red. When Alexander’s lips rub over his scrape, it brings along a sensation of pain and Claude visibly reacts to it by tensing in place. </p>
<p>Alexander takes notice and stops abruptly, straightening his back in the process. Claude can hear the cracks as everything snaps back into alignment. In this altered position, the shorter man has to look up now to reach the other’s eyes. They are still hazy, however, he can still perceive a semblance of emotion behind that long gaze. </p>
<p>The blond begins to draw back, releasing his hold over the brunette in the process until he inevitably backs up into a desk. The desk moves, the squeak of wooden legs unpleasant as it rubs over the hardwood floor. Taken aback by the placement of the object, clumsy hands stammer over the edge of the desk to verify its corporeal state. </p>
<p>Claude walks to him and places his arms on either side of the desk, caging Alexander between him and it. There is a mental note on how Alexander pupils are dilated, a fast shift to its opposed constricted state a few moments prior. The taller man leans back, putting his weight on the desk, creating a notable distance between the two, but his attempts fail when Claude ends up craning nearer. </p>
<p>Whatever lucidity was gained within these striking moments quickly became lost at the hands of Claude. On how they reassuringly took hold of Alexander’s arms and slowly trekked upwards. The barrier between fabric and skin is a thin one. Claude is able to envision how he would be bare based on the thickness of his arms, so enlarged that it fills his hands. Quite the visionary, Claude is able to envision the perfect body in front of him with a stroke of his thumb on every groove. </p>
<p>Perhaps that makes him an artist then, feeling the medium that he works upon with delicacy. To say the least, he prides himself on being capable of doing many things and doing them greatly. For example, he’s able to take an indignant man and reform him into its antonym with just a touch. A touch that continues its motions past the shoulders and streams up towards the neck, he acts against gravity, all to lace his fingers in a mane of gold.  </p>
<p>He interlocks Alexander’s hair away from his face to see him fully uninhibited. His attention is drawn to a particular location, the lips, as they are lightly teased when the other sucks his lower lip in. When the lip brims it is plump, but even so, teeth graze over said lip rather quickly, picking up the sparring of blood. It leaves his lips rather reddish.</p>
<p>“How do I taste?” Claude's smirk alludes to the nature of his question.</p>
<p>This time Alexander’s tongue moves to the upper lip, outlining it with desperate swipes, much like when the hands of a clock mark the passage of wasted time. An answer delayed is indeed a waste of his time, so Claude gripes at his hair, drawing out a response immediately.</p>
<p>It comes out with a gasp, “perfect,” his mouth hangs open after the compliment to the benefactor has been said. </p>
<p>A smile etched gloriously on his face, “good answer,” Claude comments once the inkling of his fingers follow the curve of the cranium downward, settling on the nape. The bristles of hair brush against him in a ticklish delight, and he, for one, will not hide his amusement.</p>
<p>Had he been upset before coming here? Slightly. Is he still upset? Not quite. Not when such an excellent opportunity to better his research has presented itself. With eagerness he leans forward, until he is at eye level with Alexander’s mouth. Something caught his eye, a white peak resembling a miniature mountain. The escalade of it slipping past the lips, resembling fangs. How intriguing, considering that beforehand it was never noticed.</p>
<p>Alexander closes his mouth and with it, seals the protrusions away; enclosed into the night much like a body in a casket. This closed off gesture comes to Claude’s disappointment. No matter, there are other things he could focus on, for example, the genetically pale pigments of his sister and him. Both paper thin and paper white, translucent enough that he can view the dim blue of veins under the right lighting. Branches that lead again back to the lips, and oddly enough, a new rejuvenated color fills the space of the vermilion. And with time, the veins of the face can no longer be traced beneath the skin.</p>
<p>These subtle changes, they do not go amiss. Even the retraction of the nails astounded him so. This is different, quite different, and he can’t seem to put a reason as to how or why. </p>
<p>A rumble coming from the throat, it crackles as it travels up Alexander’s throat, and in turn, Claude’s fingers head the opposite direction. Downwards, past the scapulae, until he momentarily releases the other from his hold, the weight of Claude’s hand coming to rest on Alexander’s thigh. But even then, the haze of the opposing eyes staring back at him is still evident. Glassy in texture, only by sliding his hand up is Claude able to note a difference in the reaction. </p>
<p>“Does blood excite you?”</p>
<p>The answer came in a gasp, winded and strung out. He can feel the shudder ruminating underneath his palm. His hand remains there, fixated to one location to ground Alexander. If his hand were to slide further up, he’d know the answer, but that’s far too invasive, far too personal, and far too outside his interests. And yet, when it comes to the topic of hands, one comes to touch his own face. To be capable of such gentleness, amidst the coldness that that body exudes, Claude is unknowing of what to do next. When he feels the thumb pass under his eye, touching the discoloration with bare hands, he falls to a loss of words. Claude closes his eyes choosing instead to focus on the sensation.</p>
<p>Pass the eyelashes to sweep over the brow, a noticeable swelling as that hurt more than anything else. Then he feels the trace move towards the lips, where Alexander would separate top from bottom with the pad of his thumb. </p>
<p>“You’re hurt.” Too simple of a deduction, it is as if it’s the first time he’s seen Claude with utmost clarity ever since he stepped foot in this household.</p>
<p>“Yes.” It hurts to be truthful because he hears the pity in Alexander’s voice. “My watch got stolen too.”</p>
<p>No apology, no begging for forgiveness, just an elongated, <em> hm </em>.</p>
<p>“You leave me to the wolves and that’s all you have to say for yourself?” </p>
<p>“-being with me is no different.”</p>
<p>To that Claude had nothing to say. No matter what quick witted words he’s to equip, it would be of little impact. Alexander is a person who is hard to read because as passionate as he is in one moment, just as quick does the blood of his heart freeze. Mixed signals, is his presence wanted or not? Claude thinks yes because of the way he is held. and how even in this brief moment of silence, the very same digit that pried his lips open eased down to his neck.</p>
<p>The estranged thumb follows the pulse joint, quickening its pace under the touch. The remaining four fingers curl around the hairs of his nape, latching on with a proper hold. No pain, no pleasure, he is simply an adamant presence. </p>
<p>“I can stop the pain for you.” Alexander’s words bring fog. They wash over Claude and jumble his thoughts. The mind goes uninhabited with no trace of a thought or emotion behind. He is voided of his questioning, and is now impressionable to anything that anyone says.</p>
<p>No not anyone <em> -Alexander </em>. </p>
<p>His head tilts back, allowing it to be supported by Alexander’s hand. “Y-yes.” A whisper that’s not concise with the reality of what he should be feeling. Though, that feeling in itself escapes him. All there is now is a newfound willingness to obey and with no clear reason as to why. He’s being controlled, somewhat, as he’s pulled closer to Alexander. Close enough for teeth to reach his neck. Claude’s body reacts with a fascinated pulse,  it throbs beneath Alexander’s tongue, the last bit of resistance for pushing it away. </p>
<p>Claude gasps when the wetness hits. The flatness of the tongue leaving a wet stripe on his neck. Seconds after he knows its teeth that rest on his skin, waiting for the moment that slack jaw will clamp shut. A hiss comes right before the pinching, but the pinch is not severe enough that it draws blood.</p>
<p>His fingers tighten around Alexander’s thigh. “<em> Dimitri </em>.” He calls out the only name that his mind gives him (despite not being the preferred one to use).</p>
<p>Alexander stops and pushes him away, but still, he keeps Claude within arm's length. Panting as if he finished doing some hard labor, but his conscience had not drifted back enough to call him out on it.</p>
<p>“You need to go.” Comes with such desperation that Claude feels partly at blame, but how so when he had done nothing to entice this. Nothing that his mind recalls anyways. Still, he feels despondent. Unaware of the events that have unfolded before him, partly due to his mind’s incapability of understanding.</p>
<p>For the second time in the same month his actions, and thoughts, did not feel like his own. Perhaps these are not isolated incidents and should be looked upon further. But it’s difficult when he can’t even formulate what happened into words. Though, he can say this, the further he is kept at a distance, the more the fog begins to clear from his head. Claude’s eyes aren’t as lidded. He's regained some semblance of energy, still, not enough to use said energy to his benefit. Conclusions are still hard to come by, but slowly do the words return to him.</p>
<p>“You aren’t safe here.” At the word safe his hand moves to his neck, to the very spot that could have been bitten. His fingers trace the juncture, absorbing the feeling of his cool skin, slick with light doses of spit. His fingers tremble at the site, just as he begins to form a few words fit for his composure.</p>
<p>“You don’t get to decide that for me.”  His fingers retract from his neck. They ease off his anatomy and soon he subjects them to inspection. He finds no blood, only a shine that becomes undone when he rubs his thumb over both the index and middle finger. The friction drying it out, making the space between the fingers bone dry.</p>
<p>He should refrain but finds himself unwilling to do so. Claude takes a step forward at the risk of losing his autonomy. With a hand gingerly placed on Alexander’s knee, he begins to slide it forward, tightening the box cut of the pants with his fingers. Alexander draws his eyes to a close. It is forced, to the point of shoveling his brows to a knit. “Alexander.” He pleads in a murmur, and nevertheless, it proves to be futile, the other doesn’t budge from behind the darkness. In fact, Alexander moves his face away, as if knowing of Claude inching face through sound alone. The hitching of his breath, the shuffling of fabric, the sound of his footstep, they all form part of the equation.</p>
<p>“Look at me.” He’s not asking this time, but no matter how good of a hearing Alexander has, he chooses to forgo the sound of Claude’s voice.</p>
<p>Claude picks up on the crackling of wood. Casting his sight low he sees chips of wood pinched between a pale set of fingers. He’s never witnessed such strength in a person, something that rivals that of a fierce animal. If he had to give a word for it it’d be inhumane. Force continues to be applied and the cracks lengthen. The wood is enduring the most it can but it will not retain the ability to remain whole.</p>
<p>“I’ll leave.” Claude agrees since it is no longer a matter of choice. “Just know that the moment I walk out that door, I’m never coming back. You won’t see me again, dear friend.” A hand on Alexander’s shoulder. The once tense muscle seems to relax under his ministrations. “If this is what you want I need to hear it.” The answer is definite so he gives the other man time to think it over. </p>
<p>Claude moves from his hand from Alexander’s shoulder to his cheek. His palm flat over the side of his face. The blond hisses from the contact but doesn’t exclude himself from it. At that slight partition of lips, Claude thinks he saw fangs but that isn’t plausible. Candles make for a poor source of light, he must be imagining things.</p>
<p>Alexander’s mouth opens again, this time it moves in the shape of a word that he believes is ‘I’, but with no sound to accompany it. There is just no way of it being certain. With the shape of the lips, their movement, they too could have molded in the pronunciation of yes.</p>
<p>So finally does Alexander put it into words. “Come back to me on another day.” </p>
<p>Uncertain, Claude prods for more, his touch insistent on Alexander’s cheek. “I just...” His voice is ragged, as if struggling to keep something out of wraps. He had yet to open his eyes and so far, to Claude, that’s the most damning detail of all. Eyes are the window to the soul, if he can’t look into Alexander’s eyes, he can’t read him.</p>
<p>“I can’t be around you now.”</p>
<p>This is confusing to Claude considering the fact that it was Alexander who engaged with him in the first place. No one had forced him to take a hold of Claude, and drag him to some closed off study.  It had all been of Alexander’s volition, and now it seems to have backfired on him. In just what ways he cannot comprehend. </p>
<p>There is something that Claude isn’t seeing, but, he will not stay and argue over the gaps in logic. In fact, he didn’t even confirm whether he would show or not. Better to keep the other strung on mystery and shroud him with uncertainty much like Claude is feeling in this very moment. With no spoken word of confirmation or denial, Claude ends up reciprocating with a smile, even if the other is blind to it amidst closed eyes. It is about energy, and intention, and hopefully, Alexander picks up on it. </p>
<p>Claude’s hand glides downwards, past the mandible and into the precipice of the open space. His hand lingers up, close to but not touching Alexander. He wants to say something, though in the end, silence is a better alternative. He begins to take his leave through unbalanced steps. The creak of the door is what Alexander of Claude’s leave and even comes to find that Claude’s lack of commentary is unusual. </p>
<p>“Cla-” He corrects himself. “Riegan?” No first names, remember?</p>
<p>The events of their short meeting is finalized when the door comes to a shut, both Claude and him, lingering on opposing sides. Nothing went as anticipated. When it comes to Alexander, nothing ever goes as planned, come to think of it, he never anticipated anything to begin with, he came here on a whim, of his own selfish hunger. </p>
<p>That very hunger placed him in a precarious position, one that plucks him from his branch, his foundation, only to have his rind peeled back, exposing the aril of his thoughts for another’s benefit. To be picked clean and open by witty fingers, feasting on his knowledge like the seed of a pomegranate. Bloody red and bursting with flavor, the tanginess of his personality is like the fruit itself, tempting enough to trick even a goddess. In the end, he is the one who will be feasted upon to fulfill a duty. Picked raw from this garden filled with devils. </p>
<p>“Blood has been spilled.” Just a few steps away there had been Edelgard, arms crossed in front of her chest. Confident in her statement, she commits nothing else to her bizarre annunciations. At the blink of Claude’s eyes she reappeared right in front of him with no sounding steps to signal her movement. At this proximity she grabs his wrist, flipping it over to show the minor damage to his skin. At this point the bleeding had stopped, leaving behind a tint of redness and minor inflammation on the periphery. Her nostrils flare as if inhaling the odorless platelets underneath the epidermis, licking her lips, savoring the clumping of blood right underneath eye level in anticipation. </p>
<p>Edelgard is strong, stronger than Claude has accounted for. She overpowers him easily, countering his bout of strength by turning the wrist in the opposite direction he does. Claude concurs that this is the result of his debilitated state, because scientifically speaking, a woman of her stature and weight should not surpass his strength. </p>
<p>Tired of his defiance, she twists his arm and pushes the young Riegan against the wall. The items perched on the walls rattle with the thud that shakes the upper floor. He feels the pain shoot up to his shoulder at the uncomfortable position. The ball of his hand forcibly tucked on the small of his back. Her body then presses against him, molding over his natural shape. They are prettier when they are one. Two opposites literally coming together to create something whole. </p>
<p>Claude now fears that she matches her brother in this insane strength. “I’m not my brother.” Her sibilated comment sounds intrusive to the ear. Perhaps what frightens him is not the show of strength, but her seeming omnipotence. The fact that she’s privy to his inner thoughts, his most valuable aspect being his mind. </p>
<p>“I will not allow precious blood to go to waste.”</p>
<p>Just then Alexander opens the door to the study, halting whatever was to happen just in the nick of time. Edelgard retreats her face from the juncture of the male’s neck, teeth just a little shy from a pulse. But beforehand she places a peck on a vital point, spreading the coldness that lives within her onto him, and causing it to spread through his vessels like a disease. It brings forth chills unalike anything he’s experienced for himself, lowering the temperature of his body momentarily, to the point of feeling dead. And yet, when Alexander touches him, prying him from Edelgard’s snare, he feels warmth return to him. Not so much because Alexander in a physical sense, but the sense of safety he provides, it washes over him like the rising sun. </p>
<p>Claude had compared Alexander’s attributes to that of an animal, but he now sees that it had been erroneous. </p>
<p>Alexander is both shield and sword. The lethality of a blade he bared before Claude in the form of both teeth and claw. The demonstration of a shield he personifies with his body, sturdy and massive, he is one to repel all forces who wish to harm Claude. To serve a duty so selfless that he’d even turn on family if he has to. </p>
<p>Right now Alexander acts as shield, physically forming a barrier in front of Claude to protect him from Edelgard’s scandalous actions. </p>
<p>“Do you really wish to go against me over scraps?” No fluctuation in her delivery, she doesn’t seem to be phased by her brother taking a stand against her. “Your inability to change astounds even me, brother.” </p>
<p>Edelgard persists with, “unlike you I’ve no interest in a damsel in distress.” She looks at Claude, her stare calculating and demeaning. “Good day, doctor.” She bids farewell as she walks away. </p>
<p>From behind Claude sees Alexander’s hands clenched into fists. His skin thins as it wraps over the knuckles. Claude uses this moment to wedge his fingers through the side of the closed fist, creating an aperture for his hand to slip into. Alexander allows this without an exchange of words, and more or less, finds himself accepting of Claude’s hand holding. </p>
<p>The brunette squeezes his hand to bring Alexander’s attention to him. He finds that words aren’t as effective, that actions are what spurs the other on. That being said, his blood still lingers on foreign lips. A hint of crimson fills the body of the lower lip in specs. Claude wets one of his thumbs to wipe away the excess. Strokes moving to the sides, a repeating gesture until all traces of himself have been lifted. His thumb hovers on the left side of the commissure, just now taking into consideration that he slathered his saliva on Alexander’s mouth. Before he even gave his apology a chance to breathe, Alexander’s tongue sprung out, splitting the lips lightly to follow in Claude’s coordinates. He licks at both the upper and lower lip in equal measure, making sure not to miss any spots Claude had touched upon him. He moves his tongue slowly so Claude has no difficulty following his endeavors, intaking the taste of Claude before it dries on his lips. If Alexander were the sort, Claude would say he was teasing, but he isn’t, so Claude continues to watch as he bids off his own curiosity. </p>
<p>Some would consider the sharing of spit to be a (indirect) kiss, but Claude is the sort of fellow that requires more than that. He likes texture. The feeling of someone else’s lips over his, the chasms created with the spiraling of tongues. To have hands lead him into a state of undress. To do the maneuvering of noses when sharing a single breath. It is about the noises, arranged so delicately to accompany the throes of a beating heart, a song of passion and lust. A kiss requires more involvement than spit, in his opinion. </p>
<p>The smacking of lips, the sound, takes the attention away from his lecherous thoughts. The image before him is that of plump lips, lips that are ripe for kissing, lips that Claude would very much like to kiss. </p>
<p>It’s ironic isn’t it? To arrive with anger and to have that replaced by infatuation, a desire to kiss. Such complexity is bound to humans, emotions are a fickle thing.</p>
<p>Alexander begins to lead him down the same path they used to get here. A feeling so narrow as the walls seem to distort around them. The entrance, to Claude, seems far and inadmissible. Perhaps because the pace does not come as quick, or perhaps it’s because he does not wish to leave yet. He doesn’t know what he wants as of yet. All he knows is that when they inevitably reach the entrance door, an insisting itch at his throat gives rise to concerns. He doesn’t voice them, not yet anyways, not when he’s the evident rift between two siblings. </p>
<p>The door’s handle turns, bringing in a slight heat from the outside when the door opens. The opening brings alongside it a brush of air upon the meadows. Dry pasture flowing with the wind, and in synchrony, so does Claude’s coat tail. </p>
<p>Alexander opened the door wide enough for Claude to pass through, he on the other hand, will posture himself behind it, shying away from the sun altogether. “I’m sorry.” Is the apology Claude receives. Something heartfelt, wrenched from the deepest pit of Alexander’s heart. “Truly, I tried to keep you away from this.” When the sun strikes Claude’s skin it gives it new life. Those subtle yellow undertones ignite with a humble shade of orange from the fleeting rays of sun. Claude’s favorite color has always been yellow, and it is not hard for him to validate his opinion using Alexander as an example. The golden strands of hair, long and saturated like fields of wheat, how wonderful his hair would be if braided like the weaving of grain. If Alexander were to step out under direct sunlight, the yellowing of his skin would be something temporary but beautiful nonetheless. </p>
<p>“But you do not listen.” Is what follows after, and Claude blinks to show his attention has not been spared elsewhere. “And I fear that you will continue not to listen.” With this Alexander releases Claude’s hand, foregoing their unity in hesitance. Claude’s fingers twitch at the lonesome feeling, and comes to miss the surrounding boldness among his fingers.</p>
<p>The space that divides them grows bigger, a gap of sweltering want. A want for company, a want for an explanation? That is unknown even to his very heart. The nature of these feelings are unrelated to anything he’s come to know. </p>
<p>“Anything that happens from here on after is of your own consequence.” And like that, the door closes. It leaves him to stand outside the looking glass again, like the outsider he is, <em>like the outsider he’s always been</em>. </p>
<p>The silence of the meadow does very little to ease his overactive mind. A Multitude of questions and ideas fester, all culminating into a distraction against the throbbing ache in every inch of his body. Claude’s feet carry him wayward, distal from the porch and onto the outside, where the glamour of a rustic scene envelops him fully. </p>
<p>A setting sun shines brighter in its last moments. A fierceness of orange and reds fuel the skies, only for its color to become diluted by thickening clouds beginning to consume the horizon. It is symbolic. Color comes briefly only for it to be taken away in short notice. A lesson: happiness is fleeting, and just as easy, it can be taken away. </p>
<p>Claude continues to stand at the top of the hill, watching, waiting for it to become dusk. A gradient reflects upon him. The warm tones slowly sink like shadows hiding in the depth of night as the cool tones rise above him. As he walks home, the darkening of the sky accompanies him outside; Claude can only wish for a better tomorrow.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Alrighty, this week's chapter was going to be a LONG one so I broke it up into two separate chapters which will both be uploaded today. I haven't decided if I'll post a chapter next week since I'm doing two today but I'll cross that bridge when it gets here. </p><p>That being said, typical warnings for this chapter, blood mention and blood drinking. Slightly NSFW</p><p>You can find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/whorerormovie">twitter</a>, though for now, I hope you enjoy this.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>His wish is not granted because come morning, another body is found. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has spent much of the previous night writing down notes on the odd behaviors Alexander has exhibited during their time in private. Notes he compared to the writing in previous literatures regarding vampires. There had been some semblances, but overall, nothing that counters his belief indefinitely. So it comes as quite the shock to him that another victim is rumored to have been killed by the infamous creatures of the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another victim, and again, it is another young woman. The condition of the body had been more or less found in the same condition as the other one, ruling it out to be a killing in serie. Two puncture wounds found at the neck, plus some contusions surrounding said cervical area. She put up more of a fight, her body revealed that progress as her dress had been torn from the neck line. Two of her fingers were deformed, twisted in unnatural directions. They were made to be that way through fractures on the bone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he had to give a reason as to the cause of death it’d be blood loss. Copious liters of blood laid in a pool beneath the corpse. At this time, the blood had become darker, he imagines with the exposure of the night. Upon further inspection he noted that the puncture wounds themselves have been particularly wide and too on par with symmetry. They’re more or less gaps, holes bored into the area instead of a bite mark. Not to say he’s an expert at identifying marks, but he’s treated others with bite wounds, and even then, there’s usually an imprint of more than two teeth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The reason why he knows the explicit details of this heinous act is because he had been the one to find the body on his way to work. He found her by chance, a short distance away from the clinic. The trail of blood in the early hours is what led him to her, and upon finding her depraved corpse, he’d immediately recognized her as the girl he danced with at the bar. The feather still in her hair, limp and bloodstained this time around. A heavy pang struck his heart when he knelt down to close her eyes. She died terrified and alone, he could only feel pity for her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He left his jacket with her. Barren of all personal belongings as it drapes over her cold corpse. A way to preserve her image, he does not want this to be people’s last memory of her. He suffered a great deal that night, but nothing that he blames her for. He doesn’t feel anything that condones the fate that has befallen her. All he feels is immense sadness. This girl deserved better than to be tarnished by the hands of someone’s misdeeds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude had waited until the proper authorities arrived at the crime scene prior to taking his leave, though that itself did not come without its hindrances. He was questioned, rightly so for having reported the body, but to what he didn’t take kindly to is making it seems as if he were the perpetrator. They spoke to him with blame certain on their tongues. A confession all that was needed to make swift justice, doesn’t matter if it had been misplaced, as long as someone was behind bars, the pressure was kept off their backs. But that didn’t work on Claude, he is far too educated to have a false charge pinned on him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>According to witness reports he was spotted with her two nights prior, which he admits, but that’s not enough to validate their suspicions. They questioned the origins of his injuries and he admitted to getting beaten by some ruffians on that very same night, and purposely did he fail to mention the victim’s relation to those who administered the beating. Last thing he needs is for them to associate vengeance as a probable cause. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing against him was substantial, though they only came to believe him once Mercedes and Marianne vouched for his character. The commotion was near their workplace, it’s only natural for them to walk upon the scene just as he had. Poor Marianne, she hadn’t the stomach for it. At the sight of the corpse she turned around, palm to mouth to keep the hurling at bay. He had covered the body, so it wasn’t so much the atrocity, but the smell of defecation that made her reaction so intense. A natural response to death as all the muscles of the body loosen, accompany that with the immense amount of blood that covers the pavement, it is no wonder her reaction is as intense as it is. Death lingers in the air, and as medical professionals they should be used to it, but they’re not. Their job is to help people. To watch over them and ensure they live long and healthy lives, it is not their duty to watch over mangled corpses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Death is a part of the cycle. They’re aware of this, they’re faced with mortality more often than they’re comfortable with, but just because it’s part of the cycle doesn’t mean it hurts any less. It doesn’t get easier with each passing body. The growing toll of the deceased does nothing to make it more bearable, it just hurts. It is a wound that never properly heals. At times the pain won’t bother, other times the pain is manageable, though there are times, times like these, where he even asks himself if what he’s doing is worth it. Is he, and are his peers, even making a difference in these people’s lives?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His heart sinks in the feeling of hopelessness. Mercedes is the person he tends to lean on for encouragement. She always knows what to say. Even if he doesn’t agree with her beliefs, her mannerisms soothe him. She is of gentle personality, can’t help but feel his sharpened edges become duller whenever he looks at her. He learns from her and she learns from him, and in this very moment, he learns her sadness, and watches in silence as it leaves her with tears in her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His heart continues to sink deeper into the depths of her tears; Mercedes’ sadness swallowing him whole. He’d drown in her tears if he could, it’d be a far more welcoming death. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude feels a pressure in his chest. At first he wonders if he is truly drowning, but realizes that it’s just Marianne. She wrapped her arms around him to bury her face on his chest, shaking as the direness of this reality settles in. She’s scared, and there’s no blaming her for it. As a woman she must fear for her life much more than he, a man, would. So far the only victims identified have been female, and he cannot understand the emphasis that kind of target means.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand comes to rest on the back of her head. Softly tending to her braids, he maneuvers his fingers over the coiled bits, following the style in comfort as to not dishevel her look. Mercedes comes to him next, resting her head on his shoulder. Her tears continue to shed, and as gravity will have it, they fall onto his shoulder. He feels the dampness that permeates through his sleeve and says nothing of it, he just lets it happen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One drop falls down her cheek, the streak running dry before it reaches his shoulder. Claude tilts his head slightly to the side to evade the tears because looking at others cry stirs the same emotion within him. Crying is not something he often does, less if done in front of others, even if he shares the same sentiment with them. For him to cry is to be vulnerable and he can’t be vulnerable when others depend on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He, no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>they</span>
  </em>
  <span> have a duty to fulfill. That being said, they cannot continue to engage if their safety is not guaranteed. To do so will bring danger. At the end of the day, the clinical staff have to consider their safety too, and it is because of these killings that he wants to put a halt to their grouply outings. It is currently not safe to traverse through battered neighborhoods. All things considered, they’ve been fairly lucky as to not have come to any harm during work hours. They walk with no protection, only pockets filled with good intentions. It’s naive that he didn’t consider the dangers of them walking into the homes of strangers without knowing what actually goes on behind closed doors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After speaking with Manuela, they all agreed to postpone clinical duties for a week. To give enough time for the tension to dismiss itself, and hopefully, find a culprit by then. Because if either Marianne or Mercedes come to harm, he will never find forgiveness within himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finding the culprit is not his job, however, he has a hunch on where the search should begin. The manor, the place where every rumor leads him to. He doesn’t believe that Alexander is capable, still, entertaining these rumors is not the worst use of his time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Susceptible to the evening’s cold he finds himself knocking on their door again. Timid as he knocks, the softness of his touch causes the frame to tremble. Some time has passed and no one has come to open the door for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time around he came during the evening. He figures that avoiding the hours of light will perhaps appease the siblings, at least, that’s the idea. Not that Alexander and Edelgard could ever be compared to a friendly lot, it’s just that yesterday their actions had been more hostile than he cared to appreciate. He hopes that this evening might prove different. A foolish thought mayhap, considering the reputation that precedes these siblings. So why, just why does Claude place himself in such predicaments? He has enough reason to write them off as unruly, but doing so is too simple a thing. There’s much that he must gather, even more are the things he can still learn, and many myths to debunk now that he knows of the sibling’s affinity for blood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re different. Not vampires, just different. Sick is a more appropriate term, though many seem to disagree. Nonetheless, his interest is piqued by the odd pair. His life could be in danger at this very moment, but as the saying goes, nothing ventured, nothing gained.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude hears movement from behind the door. Heavy footsteps stilled in the passing seconds. A manifestation of light makes for makeshift shadows underneath the door, hinting to an unknown presence. He continues to wait for the door to open, and the longer he is forced to wait the more it seems like he’s being refused. Unfortunately, he is not here to be an amicable guest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you’re there.” There is certainty within Claude’s voice. He believes Hubert is behind the door since he's the only one willing to indulge him in these mind games. However, when the door opens, it is not Hubert who heeds his call, it is Alexander. At this reveal, Claude tucks his hands at his side. It doesn’t take long for Alexander to notice his lack of apparel —Claude looks slimmer with no coat to keep him covered, no pocket chain to weigh him down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His pocket watch is a gift that was stolen, whereas his coat was given away as a gift. This city only seems to take from him. It is due time that someone else does the giving. Perhaps the honor will fall to Alexander, and perhaps what he will give Claude is a little bit of his time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alexander doesn’t ask why Claude is here or what he wants, he simply stares in silence. His expression adorned with embezzlements of disappointment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s been another murder.” Claude tries to express the occurrence passively.  To be seemingly at ease with his statement, but the memory of her dead body, it causes his jaw to tense. His mouth locks into a frown. He tries not to let it get to him, but it does, and so now he must hide it, and he fails with that too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the words he is allowed inside but even then, nothing is shared between them in terms of dialogue. Alexander sneaks him upstairs into the same study they had been at yesterday. He was urged to move quietly, almost like ushering a lover inside without a parent’s knowledge, both have the same appeal of secrecy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude watches the flicker of light from a comfortable distance. The heat gives wax new life, making it melt in a comfortable silence. The more candles Alexander turns on, the more of the study becomes visible to him. With that being said, his wandering eye caught the extent of the damage done upon the desk the night prior. The fissures stretch nearly to the opposing edge, and from there, he can also see indentations in the shape of Alexander’s fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just now Alexander walks to him, his steps weighted under the candle he carries. One hand equipped with leather to hold the steel mount of the candle, and his other hand, gloveless as it bears a burning match. With two sources of light illuminating his features, Claude agrees that the hue of orange is one that benefits Alexander. It corrects his paleness, taking away his tired undertones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The match is then brought between them, it’s dim lighting blares very little. The fire almost consumes the match itself, so now he wonders, just who in this scenario is the fire and who is the match. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Who will consume the other? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude sees the reflection of the match burn intently within Alexander’s hooded eyes. His eye amplifies the flame, makes it more than what it is in reality. Fitting in a way that matches Alexander’s intense personality. Claude sees this and immediately wonders what Alexander sees in his eyes. How does the flame behave and what shape does it take? A pitch of red within a green iris is like a forest fire, something energetic and all-consuming. The flame in his eyes can also be nearly expired, flickering into embers, exhausted from once burning so hotly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you care so little of the people here that you won’t dare ask who it was?” Claude breaks the silence. His tone brings an edge, mild in its attempt to rile Alexander into saying something. In return he is given something, an answer, but it arrives with a lack of words. A gesture that is hurried and not at all profound. Alexander’s lips purse, whistling out a stream of air that expires the ignited match. Claude feels that air spreading over his face, followed by the scent of smoke entering through his nostrils and leaving about a smoky taste.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude has no words to combat this, and instead, takes the candle once it was offered to him. A means to shine his path through the darkness. How metaphorical that he’d be given this here by a man who adorns darkness as if it were robes. He swallows under the weight of the candle, watching as the solid of wax begins to liquify and fall down the edges tiredly. Thankfully, the mount is wide enough that it holds the dissolving excess, now he won’t have to worry whether he will burn himself or not; not that he minds either way. Long study nights by candlelight have pretty much granted him immunity to the ardor, his knuckles too calloused, they alone feel like dried wax.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alexander begins to grant them enough space to be away from one another. He heads to one of the nearby walls littered with books, the shelves themselves comparably as old. Alexander pretends to be occupied, his head moving as if his eyes dart from spine cover to spine cover at too quick a pace. That's how Claude knows he’s faking. Even the most well versed men can’t read at such pace. No matter, if it’s a game of deception, Claude can very well play the part.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls up next to Alexander, a few paces to his left. Claude sets the candle on an available space on the shelf, the diameter of light hinting to the title of the most proximal text. Claude spots various books discussing medicine, and surprisingly, he recognizes a rare few authors from his home country. It appears that Alexander’s thirst for knowledge had led him overseas, to teachings that differ so much from this plot of land. To say the least, Alexander is a well read man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude reaches for the biggest book, his finger tucks it out of place by pulling at it from the top, nudging at it until he’s able to pinch its sides and retract it completely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re rumoring your name as that of the culprit.” A statement partly conveyed in truth. This is what the people think, but have yet to place his name (or his sister’s) out in the open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think I did it?” Finally some involvement from Alexander. He swears that gaining Alexander’s interest brings him more joy than his degree.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude chooses silence when his focus tilts into the book. His fingers spread the pages open, learning the layout of the words whose ink had bulged in the long ago. Olde English being the language, these words stood out more compared to their modern counterparts. And as he continues to flip through the pages, the more the old style takes over, making him certain that this book was conceived generations before them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mind is a fickle thing, tends to wander aimlessly and easily. Only when Alexander presses two fingers against his neck does he return to him. Claude swallows and still he feels him. Alexander’s touch is persistent as his fingers move inwards, sinking into the hollow underneath Claude’s mandible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His pulse remains composed, continuously beating besides the unclad digits. The cold emanating from Alexander’s body staggers him for just a moment. In response to this, Alexander hums, still waiting for Claude’s response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t recall ever saying anything of the sort.” Claude wets his lips with a slide of the tongue. “I’m not so easily suade that I believe every rumor I hear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And yet you bring these rumors to me.” The weight of Alexander’s fingers remain. No pain comes from it, still, it doesn’t make it any less unusual. “Tell me, what else is being said about me.” His turn to pry into Claude's head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Things I doubt you haven’t heard of.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think I’m a vampire?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The answer does not come without its complications. There have been moments shared between the two that have been questionable. Doubt does not exist in his mind that Alexander is human. However, deep down, </span>
  <em>
    <span>very deep down</span>
  </em>
  <span>, there is a part of him that questions just how human Alexander is. It is the voice of his former self, the child who often believed in tales that tells him to fall for the make believe. Though as an adult he cannot adopt that naive mindset. He needs to be unclouded in his judgement, no matter the things he’s witnessed, they are not enough to make him biased. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite that, Claude falters with his short answer. A “No” leaves him, and due to the pacing of his heart, it happens in such a way that it’s hurried. So uncharacteristic of Claude who enjoys to drawl. Alexander picks up on this, at the faster rate of his heart, and accuses him of lying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do not lie to me.” Alexander’s voice is thick with danger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude’s gotten so good at lying that at times he fools even himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not a vampire in the conventional sense.” He ends with a short winded gasp. A sting at the tip of his index, the cause of it, a paper cut. It withdraws blood from him, a thick clump of red galloping over the curve of his finger. A slow movement as it motions downwards, slowly inching to the base of the finger. Alexander’s touch no longer lingers on him. The sight of blood repels him, and yet, Claude can still see the want in his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is an attempt at distance when a gap is waged between them. No matter, it is nothing that cannot be undone with a few steps of his own. Claude shuts the book before slotting it back in its original spot, mindful as to not smear any trace of blood that may defile its worth. Afterwards, Claude’s thumb begins to press around the wound, surging more blood out of the cut to prevent it from clotting. He’s noticed that Alexander is much more complacent when blood is involved, might as well exploit that. That being said, his newest scheme requires a continuous supply of blood and he cannot have himself run dry just yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Edelgard informed me that you’re not feeding. Tell me Alexander, what do you normally feed upon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can feel Alexander’s focus on him, well, on his finger to be exact. Blue eyes follow the streak of crimson, something warm as it continues on its path. Alexander swallows, his parch demonstrated by the licking of his lips. The swallowing of spit is a momentary hydration that will mount to nothing in the long run. That’s why Alexander needs this, he needs this small bit of blood like nothing else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you are quite fond of this.” Claude holds his finger up, with the movement, a stray drop falls to the floor, only to be soiled by a footprint. Edelgard might call it a waste, but to Alexander, it is much more than that. Blood is a vital essence and if discarded, life becomes wasted. Everyone needs blood to survive, and if wasted in excess, that person will surely die. He sees this truth on Alexander’s person, the way his knees almost buckled to reach the floor with hands brought together, all to try and catch the crimson morsel as if it were water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alexander’s tight expression is undone by the press of Claude’s finger. With this, Claude silences Alexander, and when he hears whimpers emanate from the man, Claude feels the rattling of Alexander’s breath deep in his bones. That urges him to move, and so he does, his finger presently wagging over the shape of Alexander’s lips. His own blood is smooth like velvet, filling it with color so thick that it begins to drip down the corners. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Never able to stay within the lines, Alexander seeks to aid Claude by licking the mess clean. His tongue drags over his bottom lip, defining the proper lines with his tongue as he cleans Claude’s blood from his mouth. In doing so he creates an opening ample enough for Claude to fit his finger inside, and finds that with little hesitation, Claude does just that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See? Cannot even let a single drop go to waste.” His voice is in the company of mild interest as the tip of his finger goes in. Alexander’s mouth feels moist, inviting even, so he feels welcomed to push his finger deeper inside, just enough to hook it behind a tooth. He moves against the teeth, utilizing them to squeeze more blood from his body. Droplets at a time skidding behind his row of teeth, pooling at the frenulum. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d say that makes you a haemophilic.” His other hand rests on Alexander’s shoulder, using it to support himself when he begins to drag his finger around, pulling the lower lip outward to see his teeth. Nothing is sharp, it all plainly resembles the anatomy of a human.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know what hematophagy is?” There is no answer to be followed, as expected, considering the hindrance Claude is on his mouth. Alexander, if willing, could bite him. Make him bleed more if that is the desire, but he doesn’t because that’s what he’s been conditioned to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is when animals feast on blood.” Claude pulls out his finger, lastly leaving a drop of blood behind on his lip, and not a moment sooner does Alexander pick at it. With his tongue he dilutes the blood with saliva, thinning it before bringing it into his mouth. Alexander explores the taste, seemingly slow as to enjoy the sample. He groans in intervals relishing a taste so red that it dyes his tongue red.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude now grabs at the sides of Alexander’s face. His thumb pulls the skin of the under eyes loose, exposing more of the eyeballs. “ I don’t see eyes similar to a bat.” Claude props up his thumbs, allowing the skin to revert back. His hands then slid to Alexander’s shoulders, continuing down his back and settling on his waist. “Hhmmm, not even a pair of wings.” Claude makes it a point to sound disappointed. “Not a bat, not any other animal.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls Alexander closer, until their bodies are flushed against each other. With a height difference, Alexander slouches over him, managing to prop his forehead on the shorter male. The way Alexander’s pants leave him in desperation does not escape Claude.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not one who tends to lean on the supernatural. I do not believe that blood grants you abilities beyond my comprehension.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is inescapable how Alexander moves around Claude, the way his mouth dips over the curve of his ear, sniffing robustly at the thick locks of brown that loom over his head. He can hear the nostrils flare, and with it, comes the rush of air, cool and yet hot with how it moves the stray strands. Claude wonders if Alexander is able to recognize the scent that springs from his hair. A literal Spring. A bed of flowers drowned in water, until their purest assets seeped into it. Rose water, something subtle, fresh and sweet, humble enough to the senses that it doesn’t offend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He practices washing in the morning with it. A quick douse to rinse both hair and body, leaving him properly washed and scented. A way of healing the body of ailments. He has kept his health by ridding improper smells, because as they all know, one of the common causes of sickness is malodor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On occasions in which he cannot prepare his own brew of scented wash, he uses rum as a hair cleaner. When mornings arrive at too hurried a pace, he empties a portion of a bottle, cleansing his scalp with the bitters. He imagines that Alexander would have enjoyed that scent far more than flowers. Rum is mature, and Alexander is a man of similar likeness. Both are something thick to swallow, but worth the initial discomfort nonetheless. He wonders what Alexander would think of him if he were to smell alcohol on his person. Would he assume that his boldness is the act of a drunken man? Most likely so. Alexander -like many others- seem to think the worst of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To counter those impressions, Claude takes great pride in himself. He must always ensure that he looks proper, even if he has to take extra precautions to secure his role. A man of higher class, not in the sense of wealth, but in the sense of knowledge. Intelligence is considered a type of wealth, and it is precisely because of that wealth that he’s here, trapped embracing Alexander. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A gasp comes short winded once a mouth begins to wander over Claude’s neck. Full set of lips feel warm around his skin, all while being edged with prickling pain as hurried presses of teeth pinch him. Every teasing bite is a mouthful of suspense. Unsure as to which bite will draw blood, if any. His neck is left with imprints, he can’t see them, but feels the tingle surround each indentation of teeth. The tingle leads to the base of his neck, where Alexander’s mouth folds over the juncture, his tongue preparing the skin for a greet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What I believe,” Claude commences,  though regrettably, Alexander’s groan clears his mind. Not in the way of yesterday, where his mind went to an inconceivable place so far removed from himself that he didn’t even recognize the words he needed to speak. Today is different. Claude Von Riegan is very much himself; today he is not a stranger within his own skin. He has enough sense to carry himself through this situation with clarity, though his purpose wanes thanks to an eager mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude gasps again when something sharp teases his sensitive skin. It does not pierce, nor does it scratch, but it creates enough of a stimuli to leave him breathless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>What I believe</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He tries again, finding himself less successful during the second attempt. The behavior Alexander exhibits is so unlike yesterdays. Today he is a different man with poised efforts. Carrying a calm that makes his actions hard to read. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alexander’s face moves to the opposing side of his neck. His mouth lays over a beating pulse to leave bruises, adding to the collection on Claude’s body. Claude begins to breathe heavily, panting as Alexander’s tongue breeches from expert lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Now that Alexander has gotten a taste he won’t let him go.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“What I believe that it does give you, is that it fulfills your sexual depravity.” And just like that, his neck can no longer support the weight of his head. Without tension his head falls back, revealing more of the enticing body part. Claude can’t help but squirm when Alexander continues to move about on his neck, those hands of his finding purchase on Claude’s hips, keeping him upright when his knees go weak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The jaw against his body goes slack, tipping upwards right into the curve of his ear, where whispers rummage his body, striking Claude’s cheeks aflame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you’re mistaking my so called sexual depravity for yours.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something wet lures out, leans towards his lobe where moisture presses lightly on the jewelry that hangs. It wets the skin too, and with every warm breath that is brought out, it makes his skin tickle. He bites down a gasp as Alexander takes his earring into his mouth. The heat that envelops him, the way Alexander’s tongue plays around the loops, he is given no choice but to fail in his task. His lips part, alluding to a broken gasp, trembling just as he does. Claude shivers and then those shivers lead deep into the softness of his lungs, making him so out of breath. Alexander takes notice of his response and decides to continue his ministrations elsewhere, up where the delve of Claude’s eardrum welcomes him in full. He can feel the tip of the tongue swirl inside him, moving energetically to spread about that wet feeling. It is an odd feeling, but one he considers to be Alexander’s insistence of wanting to be inside him by any means.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dark and challenging, Claude can feel the threat of teeth becoming sharper at his side. Threatening to cut and deprive his body of blood until he’s lifeless. Lifeless being the way he’ll be most obedient to Alexander’s whims. With a </span>
  <em>
    <span>tch</span>
  </em>
  <span> nipping at his own lip, Claude begins to handle Alexander’s hair, pulling tight on the tail brimming from a black tie. He leads Alexander’s face back down, scantily forcing his mouth over bruises, places he’s already laid claim to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude is the meat that fills Alexander’s mouth, rendering him silent, because he’s much more of a darling when he’s not talking back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bite me.” He orders with a click of his tongue. “Sink your teeth into me and drink from me as your chalice.” His voice still continues to convey certainty, but for Alexander, it is easy to break Claude’s conviction. All it takes is another bruise, a succulent suck to gather the blood to one spot. It has Claude reeling within seconds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though in honesty, what he had said had been on a whim. Now he has to convert his sly words into a test, to finally distinguish what’s fiction and what’s not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to hold back anymore.” Claude’s voice sings low as he comes to cusp Alexander’s face. His neck feels sore, nevertheless, he lifts his head in such a way that he looks down upon the other, while Alexander looks up at him with unlimited desire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude is the prize Alexander will sink his teeth into. </span>
  <b>Exploit him</b>
  <span>. Drink this red wine in the shape of a man until his belly swells. Alexander is shaking just thinking about it. The anticipation forges a man most wild, his chest swelling to let out a growl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dimitri please.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Doomed to repeat his mistakes Claude speaks the wrong name into existence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All candlelights turn off at once leaving the room pitch black. What he cannot see he can feel with his fingertips. Hair slips free from his grasp when he feels the loss of Alexander’s face depart from his neck, breath fanning his face with every exhale. This he cannot touch with his fingers, but it blows fast, never stilling even in the silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hands at Claude’s hips motion him elsewhere, forcing him back into something sturdy --a desk. His breath hitches when he feels the blond move around him, mouth dipping over the hollow of his throat, licking translations that will forever be lost in the crypt of his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every low and pleasurable sound buried in the recess of that which Alexander wishes tear open. A bite to rip him apart, carnivorous, as he feasts upon the red fillings of his insides. Forever silencing him, never to speak back in defiance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude expected this to be rough, yet it is everything but. Alexander lays him down gently, hand steady on the back of his neck, and the other supporting the back of his thigh. To get there that hand had to travel over the curve of his rear, that fact doesn’t escape him, and he lets out an air of resignation in compliment. The corner of his lips curve upward, the brief showings of a smile once his back settles on the hard surface. His chest deflates, an airy sigh alongside trickles of a laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude’s head is light with excitement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know not what you ask.” The voice beneath his chin rumbles, the intensity of his words surmounting with each planted kiss. He’s right, Claude does not know, he is too confident in his lack of superstition to be aware of any danger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he can do is rely on feeling. The feeling of his legs as they part, the stretch pulling at his inner muscles, keeping them spread once Alexander lays his weight fully on him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude is engulfed underneath him, he is breathless, dizzy even, so he arches his back, lifting his torso to chase another feeling. Their hips brush against one another, delicate enough in its desire to be considered subtle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pain settles once fingers on the back of his neck reach upwards to pull on his hair. Knuckle deep as fingers clutch at the strands, pulling taut to maneuver his head back, creating the slope Alexander’s tongue will revel upon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I will give it to you nonetheless to show you the error of your ways.” Alexander says, his patience already reached its end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hand that was on his thigh moves to his shirt to bid loose the buttons. Not all, just the necessary amount to stretch out the collar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re both breathing heavily now. The longer this prolongs the drier Claude’s lips become. He licks them in anticipation, moaning once his body adjusts to the buzzing at the back of his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude hears Alexander before he feels him. A hiss so guttural when the jaw unhinges. The dripping sound of drool that follows as it latches on Claude’s skin, feeling cool over a body so hot. Beat after beat of his thundering heart, so loud in his ear that it makes him nervous. These are all sounds to go by, sounds that build up the anticipation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The foreign body sinks over him until they feel as one body and one mind. Being pinned by Alexander, he does not feel dread as he once did with Edelgard. He feels pleasure manifest within him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude’s eyes drift to a close, lashes thick enough to feel weighed against the blinding darkness. Whether his eyes are open or close matters very little. Either way, he cannot see, and has not been able to see in these last moments due to the extinguished candlelights. Besides, enduring Alexander’s blinding bouts of passion is not something that can be experienced visually, only felt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Air leaves his lungs. A sigh that makes his body soften, making it easier for teeth to sink into him. His hands begin to roam around Alexander’s shoulders, locking him, forcing him down against Claude with no maneuver of escape. When Claude breathes out again Alexander sinks into his depths; sharp teeth lining around the jolting pulse to lay a bite so dense it should make Claude’s body sing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it doesn’t because Alexander stops short of a shallow prick when the light of the hallway creeps into the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The creak of the door is what alerts them to the intrusion. By opening his eyes he finds Edelgard in the doorway, unphased by the nature of their predicament.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It seems you’re well in company.” The plateau of her voice is not something that’s improvised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alexander physically tenses at her words, still, he breaks the silence for her when she adds nothing else. “Give us a moment.” Speaking into Claude’s neck, the low vibrations draw out a sweet sound from Claude, something to balance out Alexander’s intensity. Embarrassed by his slip up, Claude turns face to look away from Edelgard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>However, Alexander only grows bolder with the extra pair of eyes on him.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alexander makes it a show to pinch the skin in between his front teeth, pulling at it until it’s sensitive enough to turn red. Once it does he apologetically kisses the sore spot before sucking the bit of skin into his mouth, where it shall turn into a soft bruise under his attention. Claude gasps, squirming beneath Alexander’s expert mouth. Even if he doesn’t show it, he is scandalized that he chose to do this in front of his sister, even more so once he realized that it had been on the same spot Edelgard had pecked him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unable to witness this any longer his sister says, “Don’t let your visitor keep you long, brother, we have practice to attend.” The sound of fading footsteps means she’s walked away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Out of sight and out of mind, he still feels that pressure on his neck, persistent and bruising, with each slow moving second he feels his own skin thinning as it is ravaged by the mouthfuls. “Dim...” The words suffocate in his throat, physically so by the diligent markings placed among sensitive places. Oxygen faintly reaching his head, making him lighter than he had ever been. It’s hard to think, at least properly, which is why the name Dimitri comes so naturally. It is found in his thoughts, acting as a messenger of obsession. Now as to who is more obsessive between the two of them is a great question. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks it’s Alexander, at least for the time being. Just look at the way he obsessively moves against him, chipping away at anything whole until it tatters against his lips. Nothing else matters, Claude doesn’t even think that he matters, it’s just his neck that tantalizes the other so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alex...” The start of the right mention, the preferred name, but even so, Claude cannot pronounce it in its entirety. His tongue fumbled with the letters until something minuscule came out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That name is lead upon his tongue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A whimper, ever so slight at the sharpness of teeth born again on his skin. The more it digs in to tempt him, the more he seems to fight against it in the spur on the moment. Weakly he spills the other’s name. Whether pleading to be bitten or not, he does not know the implication of his tone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alex...ander.” A bit more triumphant this time. He finds the strength within himself to push him off, but only because Alexander himself allowed it. He knows that the man on top of him requires more strength to push off than he is presently capable of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>However, when facing the sight above him, Claude’s body turns rigid. The eyes hovering above him offer an inexplicable sight. Devoid of color, with no distinction between iris, pupil or sclera; it is all unified under the color black. Dark lashes mix with the dark of his eyes, there is no telling where one ends or begins, it is infinite. A priest would call it demonic. Claude on the other hand believes it to be a trick of his tired mind, or tired eyes, perhaps even both. Still, there is no denying the skip of his heartbeat, or how his anxieties churn his stomach when every time he swallows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alexander shuts his eyes before Claude is able to look too far into him. Staying away from glances behind his bangs that sweep so elegantly across his face. Claude begins to sit up, a slow draw up. Some could interpret this as intentional to elongate the moments between them, but they both know just how worn down Claude truly is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once fully seated on the edge of the desk he moves his hands towards Alexander’s face. At Claude’s touch Alexander winces, as if his touch burns. Yet, the longer his hands fixate on Alexander’s skin, the more accustomed the blond becomes to it. Alexander has yet to open his eyes, even after a minute of Claude’s coaxing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shift in body language follows. Alexander’s body relaxes and his breathing slows just enough that his lips ease slightly open, showing the flat teeth beneath. That tight line that once kept his mouth shut is no longer there, now Claude hopes that the same thing occurs with his eyes. That whichever line keeps them shut snaps from the tension, so that they may open to rid Claude from his curiosity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Guess he will have to be the blade that severs that rope line. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude’s thumb brushes over an eyelash, sweeping the hairs towards one direction. It makes the bridge of his nose brunch after the tickle. Another sweep in the opposite direction, and this time, Alexander’s blond brows slightly twitches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>More direct measures have to be taken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Open your eyes.” An order, simple as that. The order is not followed, there is hesitation, one that Claude has to disassemble with voice alone. “Please, I want to see your beautiful eyes.” A voice on the verge of desperation. He asks as though he wants nothing more out of life -and he doesn’t- not in this particular moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally Alexander opens his eyes. The sliver of light that enters from the open door casts minimal light over them. A wash of light shines over Alexander’s face, vertical, the light’s shape as it shines through the door crack. It ends up exposing the colors that were once lost to him. Eyeball being white, blue on the rim that surrounds the pupil, just as it had always been. Everything is the same, everything is normal as normal can be. Shadows manipulated his perception, forcing him to see darkness where none existed. Claude can only give a smile to that. Grateful that the outcome had not been different.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alexander cannot meet his gaze, eyes too heavy that they fall low to ogle at Claude’s neck. He imagines it to be an odd sight for Alexander to behold, to know that he is the cause of every bruise; like an artist begrudgingly acting out on his muse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude’s fingers clumsily reach for his buttons and begins to fasten them to a close. In addition, Alexander removes his ascot and begins to style it around the brunette’s neck, saving them the embarrassment of explanations to others. It fits so snugly around him and it’s warm too, it’s so reminiscent of Alexander’s mouth, both conveying the same feeling of goodness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blush on his cheeks grows hotter at the thought. He shouldn’t have these feelings towards a man he doesn’t really know, but the feelings are insistent, much like the press of the fabric surrounding him. Alexander’s fingers glide over the same spot Edelgard had kissed him at, the very same spot Alexander bid his damage moments prior to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The clues have been laid out for him, now it’s his turn to assemble the pieces. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grips Alexander’s wrist, halting the motion midway. The ascot remains untucked but that comes second to what he says, “I don’t know what goes on between your sister and you, but whatever it is, leave me out of it. I won’t be used to settle your differences.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A swallow stuck at the throat. Alexander tenses, now whether at Claude’s grip or his words, he just doesn’t know. The blond reels his hand in urgency, making it cower into the shaded spots where it’s too dark to see. Lips move prematurely to express the words that fail to come. With silence in its stead, Alexander struggles to find his voice. That is until he doesn’t struggle anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You misunderstand.” Even so, Alexander still won’t meet his eyes. He focuses instead on a drawer. Pulls it open and takes something out of it and dangles it before Claude. A pouch, with the jingle of coin to rouse his ears. Claude frowns in retaliation, an unsightly choice of expression considering the bliss that hung before it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think that with a few shillings you’ll be able to -“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I recall you stating that your watch was stolen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The interruption keeps Claude still. With his lack of initiative, Alexander takes it upon himself to set the pouch on Claude’s hand. It’s heavy. The coins within toppled over, making the bag lopsided. Claude’s fingers clamp around in earnest to get a fill of the generous compensation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope this will be sufficient. With this I want to ensure you are able to buy a new one, and if it’s not enough, I will give you more since I am at fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude sets the bag aside, his expression is that of deep thought. “You’re not to blame,” he starts as he wipes the sweat of his palms on his thighs. “You were not the one who stole it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the girl who died, she was with the ones responsible. If Alexander chooses to compensate him in wealth, then who is to say that he didn’t also avenge him by killing her? He doesn’t seem to care for the identity of the deceased, maybe he already knows because he killed her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is a bold and dangerous assumption. He has no actual evidence to link Alexander to the crime, and if the rumors of his vampiric nature are correct, then Claude is gambling with his life. Since these are odds fitting for a gambler, this puts a smile on his face, </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The higher the stakes the better the reward,</span>
  </em>
  <span> as they say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you were there the outcome could have been different, but it doesn’t guarantee that it would have been more favorable. They could have stolen from you too. Beaten you as they have I.” Claude should stop. It is best if he keeps his silence, his most inner thoughts private. The role of a naive man is the role he plays best. A man who expects goodness from everyone’s heart. But Claude knows better than to actually believe that deceit. Within every heart lies darkness. The amount just varies from person to person. Alexander is a man with a lot of darkness within him, so opaque that he has difficulty seeing through him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though Claude doesn’t stop, he just keeps going -it’s what he knows. “I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if something bad happened to you while in my company.” That much is true. He won’t deny that he feels an attraction towards Alexander, but labeling is something he simply cannot do. There is so much that evokes his interest, it’s not just physical, but intellectually as well. Claude just can't figure him out, no matter how he attempts to  manipulate the pieces in his favor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In the end it’s better that you weren’t there.” He sounds so different from last night, speaks with a new perspective attained after a night of rest. Yesterday he was not well, and relatively, he is unwell today. Regardless, he is conscious enough to admit his change. He blamed Alexander because it is easy to. Whatever spell this white devil casted it is unbreakable. No matter the danger, body nor mind will listen to reason, he does not relent in his pursuit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This all began under the name of his research, but really, what progress has he gotten? For a seeker of truth he shelters so well from his own. Secrets are meant to be unraveled, just as he’s certain that Alexander wishes to unravel more than just secrets. Starting with Claude's skin, moving to the muscle and bone until his heart is out and open, beating raw just for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry if I made you feel as though you are to blame. I admit that I was wrong and misspoke out of a misplaced emotion.” To be fair, Claude did not arrive with the best of intentions in mind. Part of him hoped to antagonize Alexander into revealing something.  He looks to the side now, eyes wandering over the silhouettes of the pouch. The amount is not slight if weight is anything to go by. Still, the action is no doubt generous, and that means more to Claude than any amount of money ever will. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As far as the watch is concerned, it was a gift from my father, I’m afraid that nothing of monetary value will replace its sentimentality.” His voice dips a bit lower, to enact a semblance of privacy amongst a cracked door. “Though know that I do appreciate your efforts.” His eyes shift elsewhere, astray from the bag and onto a familiar face. Alexander seems distracted, and as told by the knit in his brow, Claude interprets that there’s something that he’s yet to understand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did abandon you.”  Alexander speaks with certainty. Not that him leaving was ever up for debate, both parties knew what he had done. Why though? Only Alexander knows that, and to this day he chooses to leave Claude in the dark regarding it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well then.” His hand goes to touch Alexander’s face yet again. He can’t help but crash into his orbit time and time again. An irresistible pull that casts his outsides aflame, heating his flesh once the touching commences. “You can make up for it by not abandoning me tonight. Allow me to be at your side for just a bit longer, do not disregard me, let me enjoy life as you do if only for a few hours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence is bred between the two. His voice ends up breaking it. “Does this sound feasible?” He asks with a hint of nervousness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a moment for Alexander to respond to the request. Idle in his movement, he contemplates the options overhead. A nod, indecisive as it stretches his broader neck, currently unblemished by Claude’s mouth. Perhaps one day he would remedy that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay...” First time Alexander says it is to convince himself, the second time, is more or less, for Claude to be assured. “But you go where I go, don’t go prowling in places where you aren’t meant to be.” He sounds stern as he places his hands on Claude’s hips to unseat him from the desk. With a plop, Claude’s feet hit the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not the one who tends to disappear” Claude nudges Alexander with a wink, teasing at best.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude purposely left the pouch of money behind, no doubt Alexander noticed this too, but in the end, neither chose to comment on it. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is the other half of chapter 6 since originally is was meant to be one whole chapter, but anyways, this one is a doozy.<br/>WARNINGS for this chapter, eye injury/ eye trauma (towards the end), blood mention, mind control and there's a physical altercation. I think... that's it...</p><p>You can find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/whorerormovie">twitter</a>, though for now, I hope you enjoy this.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When stepping through the door, he fixes the ascot by tucking it inside his shirt, voluminous in its presentation, he finishes tucking the cloth through the gaps so no skin is left exposed. Claude must be modest after being found in quite the precarious position. He’s a doctor after all, he doesn’t stop being one just because he’s off the clock. His reputation follows him, that and his credibility hang by the same thin rope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He maneuvers just as Alexander does. Copies the same steps and turns, taking him to a section of the hall that leads upwards. The staircase is in a rotation, snaking its way up in a series of turns. Alexander is in front and moves considerably slower, his pace taking into account Claude’s newfound distraction. Parts not previously ventured are finally revealed to him in slightly awkward venues. Portraits on the wall come to him with a lack of explanation, no mention as to who the people within the frame might be or as to why their faces are burnt off. Some pictures date back to the times where they were hand drawn, pigments chosen carefully to mimic real life attributes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude stops midway, a foot prepped on the stair in front. He twists his body to face a portrait of a man so akin to Alexander that part of him believes that it had to have been him, but it isn’t. This person appears older, more mature with his hair slicked back and patches of facial hair growth forming an odd beard. The eyes however, remain the same, swept up in something gentle just like his thin lined smile. This is the only picture that has not been altered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Riegan.” The pronunciation of his last name distracts Claude. He looks towards the origin of the voice and finds Alexander a few steps ahead. The curvature of the stairs making it that he stands right atop Claude. Once Alexander made certain that he had Claude’s attention, he continued up the staircase, leaving Claude to pick up where he slacked off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took only a moment to reach the top of the stairs. Upon his arrival, his figure was obscured by Alexander's taller frame, his coat filling the sides where Claude might have otherwise been perceivable. “Apologies for the wait sister.” He speaks aloud, to the person Claude knows is Edelgard. Once Alexander relinquishes his coat and tosses it aside over a piece of furniture, he steps away to reveal the guest behind him. At this point there is no need for introductions, they are all well acquainted with one another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude and Edelgard stare at one another. Initially, there are no words exchanged between them. This silence prompts him to instead take a moment to familiarize himself with his surroundings. He believes this to be the top room that prevails from the center point of the manor, a tower-like structure he saw from the outside many moons ago. The one whose creation perplexed him considering that it is not prevalent to the stylings of the other houses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything here is kept to a shut. Closed curtains that repelled both day and night, the only source of light that mattered to these participants is that which could be generated by a match and wax. A slight aroma fills the space, vanilla, a mild fragrance that suits many. Good choice, Claude thinks, fitting for neutralizing these easily irritable personalities. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fully stepping inside, Claude leaves the door open to allow the smoke to travel elsewhere. In an enclosed space the fragrance would be usurped by the smokiness of the flame itself, which would no doubt compromise their lungs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surveying the rest of the abundant space, he finds a stool to ease upon, and just nearby it, the remains of a small table that offers a crystal jug with red liquid inside. Seeing as he’s adjacent to Edelgard, he looks up at her, and she in return does the same. Her mouth currently preoccupied with the fillings of a cup, the beverage drips down the corner of her mouth. Too thick in the downpour, it leaves her slowly and rich. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A waste, he thinks, marveled at the concentration of the concoction. No distinctive smell strikes him, no clue as to what the drink could be. Whatever it is, it makes for a threatening appearance as it stains the white of her blouse. It acts very much like blood, the very way it blotches on cloth, forming an irregular edge for a far spread stain. It stains her just like it stains the glass of the jar. In a way that makes sense, it can also be beet juice, he thinks of that same reddish hue as he views the drop channeling down her bare skin. Sensually and slow, a drop falls from chin to clavicle, the short fall causing it to splatter upon reaching skin. The drink continues down her chest, over the sternum between her petite breasts, viewable only by the open cut of her blouse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Care for a drink? It’s quite delectable.” She smirks at him, lips inked red, that is until she licks the color clear off. Edelgard then sets her cup down and begins to pour drink into an unused cup. Once done her fingers surround the brim and ushers it over to Claude, with eyes so keen whenever she looks at him. From his peripheral, he can see the blur of Alexander zeroing in on his sister.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can see the exhaustion in your eyes, doctor. Go on, drink, it’ll  help replenish your reserves.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking at a drink he has no appetite for, Claude puts on a kind front, one that requires the fullness of his lips to stretch into a smile. He closes his eyes to feign contemplation, despite his mind already being made up from the get go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of a hum and the sound of pouring. He distinguishes the sound of liquid merging into a bigger body of liquid. Claude opens one of his eyes and finds that Alexander is pouring the contents back into the pitcher, inhibiting Claude from partaking in drink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seems as thought that decision has already been made for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alexander is a man of the heart. He acts and thinks with it, whatever his heart desires is what he acts out on with little filter from his cognitive. He is impulsive, and leaves little room to second guess himself. He is practical by the means of his own heart but as far as others are concerned, he is a man most difficult to tamper with. Alexander knows more than he shows. His intellect is a dull blade, unsightly and discarded but no less deadly. A man who does not need to be underestimated, an error Claude is guilty of during the slim moments they've spent together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now Claude on the other hand, is quite the opposite, it is mind over heart with him. Rationality, certainty, preciseness, he is all things that contradicts Alexander. He is the period at the end of a life sentence. Grim when he needs to, affirmative, no room for doubt when the balance of people’s lives rests in his hands. He is a neutral face in the midst of calamity. With a doctorate under his name he must be impartial, or the risk of culling the herd becomes too great. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Succumbing to emotions, spiraling during the spur of the moment, these are seldom occurrences. Claude is about control, and the cravings of his heart is the one thing he’s never been able to fully place a cap on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alexander has made it all the much harder for him. Claude is a quick learner, and so he learns from Alexander to fall for the whims of his heart more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now opening his other eye, he can offer a bit more banter with Edelgard, “I actually prefer tea, but if none is available then I don’t mind going without a drink.” His offering of a smile still persists, harmless considering all things, but Edelgard as she is, saw more to it than a simple refusal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Straightening out her back she turns her head to look at her brother, eyes darting upward to greet his figure high above, and he does the same. They use different expressions upon their mouths, both conveying different meanings but understanding themselves all the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tea? And here I thought that your choice of drink was rum.” His blood turns cold at her selection of words, more precisely, the specificity of the drink. Rum momentarily preoccupied his thoughts in the study, could it be that somehow his most private thoughts are accessible to her? Not plausible, there’s has to be a logical explanation on how she came to this conclusion. Maybe it was her brother that told her, then again, how would he know? Could it have been from that night where they went out together? No, Claude had beer and did not dabble with darker alcohols. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, he has an idea. That day she visited his residence, she must have witnessed a lurking bottle and remembered it from happenstance. That’s the only thing that makes sense and is within the realm of possibilities. He has to remind himself that mindreading is a parlor trick -no one can do that- to feign that is to feign being a god.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Worry not, I’ll ask Hubert to brew some tea.” She exchanges a look with Claude before passing by him. He finds it odd that she has not brought up their prior scuffle, though her silence is preferable. Perhaps her reasoning is similar to his own, if that is the case, and if she remains cordial, then there is no reason why he should not do the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would actually be wise for him to leave now. The differences between Edelgard and Alexander are too great, the tension between them thick enough that it cannot be cut. He knows that this is exacerbated by his being here, that whatever competition they have continues to be fueled by his presence. Claude does not understand why he is a catalyst but he is, and it is something that cannot be undone over a cup of tea.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude stands, parting from the stool indefinitely, at least, that’s what his plan had been. He meets Alexander’s height somewhat, his head adjusting back to meet the tender gaze that awaits him. “Actually, I think it’s better if I take my leave.” He says with a bad feeling lurking within him. When he and Alexander are alone things go unpredictably. When he and Edelgard are alone things go unpredictably. When all three of them are together, he doesn’t want to stick around to see what happens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll walk you to the door.” Alexander tells him, half attempting to take Claude's hand but stops himself short. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude shakes his head in disapproval. “There is no need, I think I know the layout enough to get myself out. Besides, Edelgard is due for your attention, you’ve already kept her long enough.” His hand goes to his neck, tapping the side and feeling a fickle sensation. He knows that the ascot hides his bruises, and that they’ll remain long after he takes it off, a long reminder as to where Alexander's mouth had been. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is then he feels something prodding the center of his chest, a fine tip that elongates to a longer sword. A rapier is the name for it, he recognizes the slimness of the blade and intricacies of the guard. When the rapier moves he moves, when it points down and presses on to him, he follows the motion as to not be pierced. Inevitably, this brought him back on the stool, back to where his issues first began.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sit down you’re not leaving yet.” A movement of her wrist is enough to slant the end of the rapier under his chin, tilting his face up to force him to look at her. “Why the rush?” She asks. “The night is still young.” A simple statement as she retracts the blade from his body. Expertise in the minimal strides she performs, one foot facing towards him, while the other taps against her heel in a side position. Edelgard lowers her stance, bending her knees to cast herself closer to the ground, now if for the benefit of speed or a sturdier form, he does not hold the knowledge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She holds her rapier upwards. From his line of sight, the slim blade divides her face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was my brother unsatisfactory? I can only imagine considering how short lived your time in the study room turned out to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alexander responds in his own unkind way by forcing her to parry a hit. He strikes her from the side, the mid of his blade striking the mid of hers. At the sound of metal on metal, Claude jolts at the sound of aggressiveness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Never stilling, their actions continue to flow like water. A constant unwavering force that’s sometimes gentile, other times not. This is not one of the times in which it is gentle, it becomes hazardous as Edelgard pushes her sword down with one hand. Bringing down just enough that the tip nearly connects with Alexander’s dome. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nearly </span>
  </em>
  <span>as Alexander opposes her force, pushing his own blade in the opposite direction. Alexander channels his strength in one arm, and in an awkward position at that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edelgard leans down adding her weight to the rapier, assimilating how it tilts in its descent, almost cutting Claude. Claude leans back at the gradual slide, the cluttering of the two blades vibrant in his ears. His fingers encircle the circular frame of the stool, using it to balance his weight as Alexander pushes back against Edelgard, finding strength within himself to push back against her. Inevitably, it ends in a stalemate, and both figures now stand opposing one another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edelgard breathes heavier than her brother, but with time, their breaths reach a synchrony. Alexander’s hair is a bit out of place, some strands have slipped from the knot and over his face. His profile is partly hidden by his hair, but even so, he is not the focus, his sword is. A replica of Edelgard’s, minus the guard, it is less intricate and of rounder shape to accommodate his bigger fist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re more talkative than accustomed. Could this be related to the presence of our dear guest?” Alexander inquires.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What proceeds after is a dance. The two circle around the table, their swords pointing at one another. The silence is thrilling. Claude can do little else but watch as their swords speak for them. When one strikes the other blocks and then the action is traded. Both testing for an opening at different intervals in time. Edelgard keeps at it with her distance, taking a step back when necessary to avoid a direct hit. Body leaning back to avoid the threat, bending her knees and keeping them slightly apart with one foot placed in front of the other. Her arms, they are outspread and kept at a distance to avoid puncturing. Normally, through proper guidelines, fencing does not inflict any damage upon the wielder. Though, this isn’t a normal case, there’s no safety precautions taking place, no uniforms, no rules to adhere to. Their weapons are a danger to themselves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Alexander moves the table he does so with his knee. His right leg bends down as the opposing leg is fully extended back. His form is tight as he lowers himself far beyond Edelgard’s height. His arm stretches out, thrusting his rapier forward in an attempt to strike his sister on the chest. He’s so focused on his opponent that he’s blissfully unaware of the surrounding environment and how he influences it. The pitcher nearly topples, luckily, Claude is present to grab it in time, keeping it still in his hands, safe and unbroken over the tabletop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is not common to engage in conversation while enjoying an appetizer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>appetizer?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Edelgard brings the flat of her foot on the table and pushes it towards her brother. The edge of the table collides with the front of Alexander’s leg, but just beforehand, Claude lifts the pitcher and clutches onto it tightly. He swallows nervously when Edelgard mounts the table. Stool screeching once he scoots back when Edelgard uses her leverage to swing down on Alexander. She manages to cut his shirt, and thankfully, nothing more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I grow hungry too brother.” She swings from the right and Alexander swings from his right to cancel out the hit. She draws her arm back to perform a downward swing but he jumps out of the way in time, breath caught in his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One hand goes behind his back, tucked in the curve of his vertebrae. Alexander stands straight, his feet kept together as he faces his opponent with a defiant face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you expect me to resist after knowing you had your share?” Edelgard continues, this time slipping a look at Claude. It is a look of hunger, obsessive during its lasting seconds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She brings her blade to her mouth, laying it flat over her lips. Her tongue smooth as it leaves her mouth to lick her weapon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s my turn now.” She concludes with a kiss upon the rapier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alexander responds with “I’ve done no such thing,” stepping aside when she jumps down, arms thrusting the blade forward with the intention to pierce.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He reeks of you, brother.” Her tone escalates, as if doing so will deny what Alexander has spoken. Then again, what is the truth? Because as Alexander had mentioned, nothing happened, and at the same time, everything did. Matters got too out of control too fast, and now they’re all here dealing with the consequences of what went on in the study room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is Hubert who next enters the room, maneuvering himself around the whirling pair who discuss matters through violent means. Step after step, everything follows in the fast steps of pandemonium. Alexander gets up close, and Edelgard returns the gesture in kind by mimicking his set of movements. Both setting their weight forward with one arm tucked behind their backs. It is Alexander who excels at this show of strength, managing to push his opponent back. Edelgard’s feet glide over the burn of the rug with the pushback. She takes a step forward to take control of the situation but fails in her attempt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their swords grind against one another, sound coming to a screeching halt once joined at the hilt, clattering as their magnitudes clash. The climax is disappointing to witness, or actually, the lack of when Hubert comes into Claude’s periphery. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His tall body blocks the view without question. Even when he bends down to gradually place items on the table, he manages to detract Claude’s attention from the action behind Hubert. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude flinches when a swipe of a rapier rushes over Hubert’s head, as a result, slight trimmings of hair fall with delicacy. Hubert’s nerves are of steel, seeing as how he fails to react, failing to find the worry within death’s sweetest welcome. The man idly wipes away the traces of himself. Thin and dark, each individual strand of hair a stark comparison to who he is. Once the table is cleared of hair he attempts to take the pitcher from Claude’s hands, something he was unaware he was still holding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is mesmerizing watching Hubert work. Being close beside him Claude feels as though he is drawn into the center of a storm. From here he feels calm as the world around him revolts. Sounds of disarray as swirls of blurred movements and clashing personalities continue. Even so, the closer Hubert gets, the more tranquil the noise resonating outside his ears becomes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their fingers brush together for just a moment. Impersonal as Hubert’s glove shelters him from the warmth Claude’s touch provides. He holds his breath as the weight of the glass container escapes him. Claude’s hands itch, wanting to hold something, anything to occupy his hands and ward off his growing troubles. He feels them manifest in his stomach, aching with every clash of the blade. He fears for the worst when the siblings are so immersed in their rivalry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What strikes him first is the herbal scent. It washes over his nostrils, fills him with a puffed chest, and only then does calmness truly reach him. A smell so captivating that it brings taste to his mouth. Lemon and honey, bittersweet when combined, two distinct aromas captivated through scent alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His limbs feel light, that is, until he was given something to hold on to. A cup with its designated plate. Claude can only cross a leg over the other to help sustain the porcelain dish. Heat transmits onto his hands, helping to dissipate the churning within him, it helps to relax him, even as the siblings continue to threaten their very lives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hubert places a spoon into his cup, it lops to the side, gingerly floating within the tea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for this.” Claude starts with gratitude, then goes for something more dynamic. It’s about getting under people’s skin, saying what they least want to hear in hopes that they reveal something earnest within their scandal. Claude is a trickster, a joker, and although Hubert is not, he’s been able to follow Claude’s leads quite well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This smells delightful already. Tell me, Hubert, might the secret ingredient be poison to rid a mouse such as myself?” Claude had not forgotten that ridiculing comment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In retaliation, Hubert straightens out his back, and points to the various additives on the table: sugar, cinnamon, honey, and slices of citrus. Anything meant to enhance the natural flavors of boiled leaves. Now placing his hands to his back, he diligently looks over Claude with his piercing gaze, pondering the words before they are spoken aloud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That would be putting too much effort. So much energy and resources wasted on a mere rodent.” He can get away with saying such things only because the clashing of swords far exceeds the sound of his voice. For it were otherwise, he would be reprimanded, (at least that’s Claude’s assumption). Nevertheless, Hubert proceeds where he had left off. “Your time will come no doubt, in the meantime, try not to gorge yourself upon flattery lest you wish to be squashed under my lady’s heel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And all too quickly Claude responds, “Ah, the words of a jealous man I see. Too eager to compensate, perhaps you secretly dread that your lady now prefers a mouse over a dog.” A sip follows Claude’s words. He wishes to know what the tea would taste as is, and to no surprise, he finds it a bit bland. The aroma no doubt overcompensates for the lack of flavor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A bow of acknowledgement is all the butler gives before dismissing himself. Claude doesn’t at all ignore the smirk that comes across Hubert’s face. It is not one of victory, but of quiet anger for lack of not having the last word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hubert closes the door upon his departure, the sound of it the only thing that manages to derail the siblings from their practice. They both took a halt and used this pause to get some much needed oxygen into their lungs. Claude can only admire, especially as the horizontal cut on Alexander’s shirt exposes a portion of his pectorals. Skin glistening with sweat and powered through heaves, he swears that he can even spot a welt of pink, perhaps one of his nipples.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude takes another sip of his tea to distract himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you enjoying the tea?” Edelgard is the first to ask. It takes but a moment to answer after the tea cools within his system. Claude licks his lips, ridding them of any remaining tea and leaving only the aroma of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am.” He answers. Quite short compared to his other specialized answers, but even so, he packs the empty space following his words by pouring sugar into his tea. Just a pinch to enhance the flavor, a pinch is all his taste buds requires. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you enjoying the tea, doctor?” Her smile seems a bit of a hazy blur, her motions even more so as she approaches. Every transition blurs into the next. She walks, and every one of her movements appears weightless, and at one point he cannot even see the entirety of her face, only her wicked smile. Now this could be his imagination, but he sees fangs peek from behind the upper lip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude settles his dishes on the table, trying his best not to spill what’s inside. His head begins to feel light once more. Originally, this had been no cause for worry, but seeing as how frequent these afflictions have been, he can no longer afford to be so lenient.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You enjoying your drink makes me realize that I’m quite parched as well.” She states from behind him. Just when she got there was beyond his understanding, but for now, he can only focus on the soft press of fingers to his spine. “As I look at you my need to drink grows stronger. You’d let me wouldn’t you? You are going to let me drink.” The whispers arrive to his ears. They huddle their way inside him. Her words find refuge in his heart, pulsating with her needs in mind. She creates him anew, makes him act and talk according to her wants. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” He agrees, because he knows no other word. His mind is blank, his body light, and the phrases that come to him are not his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edelgard presses against his body, nosing his hair and stopping on the dark curls behind his ear. A hiss slithers in warning, her nails clasping as the ascot and tugging it loose and off his neck. Claude is limp against her because it is what Edelgard wants, and presently, their wants are coaligned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She puts her rapier to rest. Away from her grasp so her hand is able to focus elsewhere. Her right hand supports the right side of his neck when he tilts to that direction. He knows to do that because she, in some way, controls him. Words are not directly involved, but her voice inside his head maneuvers him into action. With her other hand she begins to unfasten the top buttons of his shirt, but unlike Alexander, she is less patient and ends up ripping them off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His neck is now exposed and tempting the owners of the household. The female has less restraint and is far more hungry. Edelgard licks a stripe on his neck. The shiver that emanates with the wetness is an added effect, rattling his upper body. His mind is void, no fear, pleasure or pain, he is unable to protest, unable to resist the eager teeth at his neck. He feels their sharpness before they try to enter him, just sliding across the expanse of his neck, over the welts her brother had left behind. She’s mulling over which spot to penetrate, and as she contemplates, the fingers on the side of his neck begin to clench around his throat. Nails drag across his skin, adding bold cuts over spots her brother had already claimed for himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It draws blood. A few drops edging from the shallow cuts, nevertheless, it does not sting as much as he expected it to. The cuts are far too superficial to present any danger to him. And it is with that thought in mind that he realizes that the beat of his heart is steady. A calm beat, unphased by the happenings around him. He is relaxed, pliant, accepting of any outcome because he wants this. He believes he wants this, knows that this is meant for him -all of this is for him. When he starts thinking too hard about what he </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>wants his head begins to hurt.  So he simply accepts. It is the easiest thing he’s ever done. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alexander takes a step forward, confrontational as he brings the tip of his rapier to Edelgard’s shoulder. The sharpness of it pierces through the fabric of her shirt but not through skin. It is meant to be a deterrent, to stop her on her tracks and it works. He wonders why Alexander  stopped, considering how violent his actions were during the practice itself, it only makes sense that he bridges the gap between sword and rival. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unrestrained and reckless in a way, this is a battle that Alexander is fighting, unknowingly to Claude what he’s actually fighting for. Was it him? Was each aggression a strive to claim him? Hubert had said it best, it is best to not think too highly of himself. And overall, it would be wise to focus on his own life and how it hangs on a margin. After all, with Edelgard’s fingers at his throat, death may come easy to him. Suffocation, blood loss, or snapping of the neck, these are all methods that could undoubtedly end him. And yet, his heart feels no worry. He cannot recognize the threat because a voice in his head convinces him not to worry. Her voice overpowers his will. Perchance, Alexander may recognize the danger and that’s why he acts the way he does, carefully, because he knows that if he were to act too harshly, harm may fall upon his guest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude feels the weight of Edelgard’s face on his neck. Cold like a lifeless body. The chill spreads over him, numbing him, as her humming brings vibrations to her throat. Her face slides down his anatomy until her head rests on the nook of the neck and shoulder. The placeholder of his shoulder supports her resiliently; his neck is comfortable to rest on. Edelgard’s long hair moves behind him, each thread of white feels like fingertips at his back, ever present and lightly tapping at his spine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In this moment, the hand closest to his pulse braces beneath the mandible. Fingers hook at either side, controlling the maneuver when she forces him to reel his head back, steeling it in place to expose the radiance of his neck. His blood is nectar, thick and heavy as it drips down the stem of his throat, and they, like birds of prey, would delight themselves on his sweet offerings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Brother.” Edelgard speaks low, and with her other hand, grips the tip of her brother’s sword; squeezing it so tight that Claude is able to hear the drip of her blood falling over the floorboards. Edelgard then moves the sword away from her, and pulls it to drag her brother down to where they are. It works, Claude knows it works, not because he sees it happening (he only has a view of the ceiling) but because he feels someone jostling at his throat, breathing heavy over it, his guess is that it’s Alexander.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sword still remains ever present at Claude’s side, caging him as it is held on either end by the siblings. Claude begins to mimic the urgency of Alexander’s breathing. The anticipation, it builds up slowly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He wants you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is Edelgard’s voice that gets into their heads. Convincing Alexander to act out on his pleasure and convincing Claude to accept it. Even so, Alexander does not act out on his want. He hesitates just as he had at every turn. But Claude knows that with every no the promise of yes is at the cusp. Each passing day, Alexander’s resilience crumbles at a mere drop of blood. Today is just another test, and Claude fails his. He gives in much more quickly and brings a hammer to Alexander’s frail resolve with the words, “I want you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon after he feels Alexander’s mouth flood near the open wounds. Tongue washing away the blood in hurried licks. It is powerful in ways that it shouldn’t be, to have a tongue tease at the margins of his cuts so passionately, with a need to get beneath his skin and have him whole. Such desperate desire, it is one that becomes lust. It is sinful, but for a man who is not of god, it is the perfect sin for him. Alexander’s denied himself for so long, they both have, so why not allow themselves to wallow into one another during this devil’s feast. Claude is the apple and Alexander is the one who will take the bite. He is the sinner that will lead them both into damnation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A groan exits Claude’s lips at the tug of his hair, a frail thing as it comes out in broken pieces. Fingers that once wound tight around the jaw are no longer present, and instead, find solace in the lengthening locks of his nape. If he were to place a guess he’d say that Edelgard is the one pushing his head further back, and in doing so, gives her brother more space to work on. That is something Alexander takes advantage of, and quickly, leaving behind new bruises. Rushing but never piercing in his bites. It makes the fog in Claude’s head thicker, harder to see through, harder to think in. All he can do is feel, relish what Alexander gives him, and right now, it is a joyous sensation wreaking havoc within his body. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude licks his lips, the taste of herbs faint at the swipe of his own tongue. He feels trapped. Is trapped by these siblings. Their bodies act like cages, keeping him captured in bones and flesh instead of steel. Steel, like what bites into his shoulder. A cut irreversible on his skin, he bleeds due to the sword and Edelgard leans down to clean it. Her tongue wedging between the cut fabric to get to the blood. With her the feeling is different, there is no euphoria, no bliss behind the act, it is practical and detached. As if having a meal with no consideration where it came from.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Brother… we must…” Edelgard moves up from the deltoid, winded as she speaks. Every word that comes out of her is strained under the pressure of her teeth. Claude cannot see her but he can feel her against him. A solid mass, grounding, like he’s six feet under.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No… we musnt.” Comes Alexander’s certain reply. He stops working on Claude’s neck to speak. Lips no longer pursing over battered skin to lay his affections. Claude finds it that it’s harder to think now. His mind fading slowly, so slowly that there might be no end in sight for this haze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Overridden with thoughts of desire. He craves Alexander, wants his lips on his, bloodied and whatnot. Nothing else matters. Nothing that came before, nothing that will come after, all that matters is the now. Claude will have this kiss because he has no desire for anything else in the world, no desire for even life itself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s sudden, yes, but is not all passion sudden? He acts according to what the murmuring in his head tells him. So controlling, it asks </span>
  <span>-no- </span>
  <span>demands him take action. He must and he will because these are not matters of the heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edelgard’s grip eases, allowing for Claude to move his head as he grabs on to the sides of Alexander’s face. He forces the other male to look at him and finds that his eyes are completely blacked out, just as he thought he saw in the study room. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>‘Fear not’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>is the words Edelgard speaks inside his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is nothing that he should find worry on. Worry not about the abysmal lack of color upon </span>
  <span>Alexander’s </span>
  <span>perilous eyes. Doesn’t worry about the red dye on his lips, red from Claude’s blood. He doesn’t care, he will try to claim those lips either way. He tilts his head, their noses touching briefly so that their lips may inch closer still. Claude moves around him, trying to tease </span>
  <span>Alexander </span>
  <span>with something sweet and loving. He feels </span>
  <span>Alexander’s </span>
  <span>presence not on his lips, but on his inner thigh. Pale hand delving deeper, thumb pressing into the crease. </span>
  <span>Alexander </span>
  <span>leans in, opening his mouth, readying himself as their kiss nears fruition. Claude thinks about spreading his lips over </span>
  <span>Alexander’s</span>
  <span>, mapping out the outlines with his tongue. At the same time, </span>
  <span>Alexander </span>
  <span>shudders as he allows air to flow out of him, relaxing him, so that Claude may do unto him the rest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before being given the chance to kiss, </span>
  <span>Alexander’s </span>
  <span>shudder transcends into a scream. Horrible, horrible agony, Claude opens his eyes to find the tip of Edelgard’s sword embedded into </span>
  <span>Alexander’s </span>
  <span>eye. Blood cascades over his face in a thick blanket of red. It frightens Claude, not because it’s blood, but because of the depravity. Such a brutal act committed upon her brother, her own blood, it strikes Claude as merciless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rapier had come from the right, angled above Claude’s right shoulder to slot perfectly into </span>
  <span>Alexander’s </span>
  <span>eye. She must have grabbed it when he distracted </span>
  <span>Alexander</span>
  <span>. This was her ploy and he was complacent to it. From this distance there’s no telling how superficial the wound is, how severe, just how much damage the sister had done. And </span>
  <span>Alexander</span>
  <span>, poor </span>
  <span>Alexander</span>
  <span>, has no sense to pull away, the pain overcomes logic and he cries tears of blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Edelgard thrusts the blade deeper, Claude takes her by surprise by grabbing her weapon by the ends and pulling it out. It retracts from the body, and with the momentum, manages to get Edelgard to land on her back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s in full control of his actions, a solid grasp on reality. The voice he hears inside his head is his own, although a tad faint when </span>
  <span>Alexander’s </span>
  <span> painful screams subdue his thoughts. Claude must focus on stopping the bleeding, and most importantly, he must remain calm while doing so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ignoring the cut on his hand from grabbing the rapier, Claude makes a grab at the discarded ascot. Red staining blue, the imprint of his blood starts turning it purple. He balls the cloth in his hand and starts dragging it from the chin up, cleaning the bloodied sites, eventually leading the rag over the eye. Claude applies firm pressure, but even then, enough blood comes out to soak through the fabric and drench down </span>
  <span>Alexander’s </span>
  <span>face in slower droplets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude bites his lower lip when considering his options. There’s not many, but he cannot afford to do nothing as this man bleeds out before him. “I need you to listen to me.” His voice is stern as he brings about his commands. It is very important that </span>
  <span>Alexander</span>
  <span> heeds his advice. It may be too late to spare his vision, but that does not mean that there are not more immediate risks taking place. “I need you to keep applying pressure.” He tries his best to sound as calm as possible, and to be patient, but when the other is non-complacent, he finds that he can’t be as passive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dimitri.” Claude calls out his first name, knowingly that </span>
  <span>Alexander</span>
  <span> would not want him to. It earns his attention momentarily, even so, </span>
  <span>Alexander</span>
  <span> is too tired to reprimand Claude on his over familiarity. The usage of first names is very personal to </span>
  <span>Alexander. </span>
  <span>Usually reserved for friends and families -people of trust- and it is clear that Claude is to be left to formalities. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude pries </span>
  <span>Alexander’s </span>
  <span>wrist away from his lap and alternates the placement, forcing </span>
  <span>Alexander’s </span>
  <span>hand on the cloth, stabilizing the pressure enough so that he may tug at the stitch line of his sleeve, detaching it off in one motion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You deserve this outcome brother.” Edelgard’s up now, dragging the bloodied tip of her rapier over the floor. “You antagonize me. You flaunt this man, this appetizer of a being, and expect me not to grow desperate with hunger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Silence!” He is appalled. A burning color spreads high on his cheeks and spreads to the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Don’t you realize the severity of your actions!?” Claude speaks against her, and for the first time, he loses his control in front of a woman. Shouting, his throat irate when spilling the words out. He’s never spoken to a lady with such harshness, but here’s the thing, this is no lady, this is the devil’s pawn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edelgard takes hold of his jaw, fingers clamping shut around the edges.  Grabs on to him so tight that her fingers shake, and he for good reason expects the bone to fragmentate under her force.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When we next meet, I will have you. Mark these words of mine, because unlike my brother, I will bring you to ruin.” She makes sure that her nails dig into his skin right before releasing him. In hindsight, none of her words matter, her petty drawl means nothing to him, the only thing of importance is </span>
  <span>Alexander</span>
  <span> and making sure he is okay. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You need to leave.” </span>
  <span>Alexander</span>
  <span> tells him, the tone of his voice is too calm and contradicting his body’s present state of jittering. “Leave. Now.” Two short words that when phrased together, become very intimidating. The command itself is powerful and it takes everything within Claude to refuse it. He has a duty, not only as a professional, but as a friend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t.” Claude denies as he scrunches the fabric of his sleeve on hand and adds it to the pile currently pressed over </span>
  <span>Alexander’s </span>
  <span>eye. Quickly does the white of his shirt absorb the blood. Not all becomes red, some parts do retain their original color, which is a good sign. Means the flow of blood is less hurried. “I need to get you to a wash. Clean you up and assess the damage. I won’t leave until I’m certain you’ll be fine without me.” All of which he said is true. He will stay and do right by him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shortly after the commotion, someone else enters the room. It is not Hubert, but another gentleman. One he’s met only once during the first time he visited. He does not recall a name, doesn’t think he was given one, but recalls finding faint traces of familiarity between Edelgard and him. “You there.” Claude beckons. “Please do help sir, help me get him to a sink.” The white haired man follows the trail of his voice further inside, the weight of his body making the floorboards sing their tired jingles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dedue, please escort our guest out.”  An order that comes from a wounded man, and when Dedue kneels, he separates Claude from the manor’s owner. He grabs Claude’s wrist, an all consuming presence as the fingers of his hand envelop him. As a surprise to him, the butler’s fingers are gentler than he expects. A hold that’s not too forceful, just stringent enough to inform of his presence. He succeeds in pulling Claude’s hand away, and as he does, he grabs a hold of the spattered fabric on Claude’s hands and gives it to Alexander, so that the wounded man may utilize it to apply pressure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude struggles against him, but even after all his trying, it still amounts to nothing. Dedue is stronger than he, bigger than he, and in his already wounded state, Claude finds that he can do nothing in Dedue’s hands. “No you can’t!” He tries to free his arm from the grip but it only ends in failure. “Blood loss has made him delirious.” Claude adds to his reason, and to make it worse, Dedue captures his other wrist to get him up on his feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude refuses to move, hindering Dedue’s efforts to get him to leave. Though in the end, he gets dragged away from the room like a hindrance. Claude thought his body might have been too heavy to handle this way, but he had been wrong. With no other alternatives, Claude makes one last pitiful attempt at reason. “He needs me.” He sounds so close to begging as weakness slips into his voice. “I'm a medic I can help!” He hates being unhelpful, or even worse, helpless. He’s both of these things right now. Dedue hesitates for a moment, taking the value of Claude’s expertise into consideration. Claude sees the realization don in when their eyes meet. That moment of clarity reflecting on Dedue’s eyes, the knowledge that he’s making a mistake </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Alexander speaks again, the decision is made for Dedue. “He does not belong here.” He says without a tremble in his voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Does not belong? Is this something that he can truly be blamed for? He was not the one at fault for the misfortune that fell upon Alexander’s eye. His arm was not responsible for punting the blade deeper within. Edelgard is at fault. She’s the one who acted out of her own twisted volition. Edelgard is a messenger of violence; she cares not for the harm done as long as her message gets through. So then why, why is he the one that must leave when his skills are essential? He cannot guarantee that he can save Alexander’s eye, but certainly he can prevent him from bleeding out. He can at least do that if given the chance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In all honesty, Alexander’s words wound him. Makes him reminisce about the times in which he was a child, when he was unwanted and easily disregarded. “A hindrance upon the family name,” a quote from his older siblings whenever he didn’t fit the part. In times of disrespect, much like this one, he would have run away. Take some time for himself, so in the long run he can come back stronger.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Presently he lacks that drive, that encouragement from within to come back strong. Time and time again people have proven to him that he doesn’t belong, even when there’s no one better suited than him. His intentions don’t even matter, his feelings neither. To everyone around him, he will always be the stranger, the foreigner, the man of many mysteries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it’s unfair, really it is, because despite it all, he would still have considered Alexander a friend, even when the man himself has told him otherwise. This is just what he gets for setting expectations. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude is upset. Well, he was upset before he got here, now he’s rightfully more upset. The rug has been pulled out from under him just as his words have too. No room left to explain himself, no room to express his credibility. Alexander never cared for his profession, never asked too many questions, never took his input into consideration. All he’s left Claude with is mixed signals, each one leading into a dead end. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Alexander doesn’t wish to see him, fine, he won’t show his face around. He won’t grovel for friendship when all his life he’s been fine without it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the exterior he’s not as vocal, not as expressive, but it is clear that he is displeased when he’s dragged down the halls. His brows descend angrily almost touching at the center. The squinting of his eyes and the wrinkles that come along with it. His lips, they mediate between anger and apathy, settling into a thin neutral line.  He doesn’t talk, not anymore. Normally, he would have the last say, but these people, they don’t deserve even that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He begins to move his feet to quicken his departure. He wants to leave this cursed manor. On his way out he is seen by both Edelgard and Hubert, who stand at the foot of the stairs, idle and falling into miscellaneous banter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dedue sensing his shift in demeanor has released his wrists to make him appear less of an irate man who needs to be escorted out. However, his touch does not remain away from Claude for long. Dedue rests his hand between Claude’s shoulder blades, adding minor force to lead him down the stairs. Like this their dynamic changes. Dedue still leads but it’s not seen as offensive. They follow the pace Claude sets, quick and assertive down each step. Every time his foot comes down he locks eyes with Edelgard, and she does the same in return.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crossing her arms she says, “I know you’re fairly busy, doctor, but don’t forget our party is just a couple of nights away.” It sounds mocking, most certainly because it is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not going to attend. He never planned to, but of course she knew that, so he won’t bother with giving her a dignified answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dedue opens the door for him. Claude follows in his tracks, passing by him and takes the first step down the porch stairs. He hears, “please don’t hold your anger towards him, he only does what he feels is right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>These words lack comfort. They leave him feeling hollowed amidst his own definition of truth. “Even if it’s wrong?” Claude asks. What’s right and what’s wrong, it varies from person to person. Alexander’s definition does not match Claude’s own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Even if it’s wrong.” Dedue is straightforward in his reply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Even if I hate him for it?” He asks, clenching his fists on either side of his body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Even if you hate him for it.” Claude then feels the faintest trace of a touch on his neck. Embolden fingers circulate the borders of a contusion. Although slight in its pressure, it still manages to bring about a twinge of pain. Not a threat but a reminder. “He only wants to protect.” The word </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>is omitted and Claude is left wondering if Edelgard’s threat had left more of an impression on Alexander than himself.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So in the end I decided to upload the chapter today, hooray I guess. Claude takes a breather in this chapter, this man deserves some time to unwind while in the company of some friendly faces.<br/>You can find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/whorerormovie">twitter</a>, though for now, I hope you enjoy this week's chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His spirit is beaten, his mind confused with lips left sour with humiliation. To be kicked out of the manor is shameful, but he does not feel such way about the moments leading up to it. The moments that had been private between the two of them, the very minutes he felt that he had a glimpse of <em> Dimitri’s </em>true self. Alexander is a persona, an image formed from the belief of everything a man should be. Made himself to be distant, always in control, as he believed all perfect men to be. </p>
<p>In that study he felt the true self beneath skin and bone. Felt that innate hunger all humans have, the desire, the want, Alexander felt alive underneath Claude’s touch. Claude could sense his hesitation, the ongoing struggles of his mind, the trepidation. Even so, Claude manages to recall the moments his kindness shined through. The offering of coins for his watch. The other man had not been indebted to him, and still he tried to take responsibility. </p>
<p>If this person were a creature so foul he wouldn’t have done that. Wouldn't have given Claude as many outs. If he had truly been a vampire, he could have taken what he wanted; drinking from Claude until those dead veins felt renewed with fresh blood. But no such thing took place, because he isn’t a vampire. Even in this moment of hurt, Claude still defends Alexander’s humanity. </p>
<p>The walk home had left him very tired, with legs so weary they could barely hold his weight. Claude never considered how much excitement had taken over his body, and how much of it had dulled his pain, because now everything feels much more intense.  Every flex of his muscles causes throbs of ardor to spread to the very joints that force his movements. Tender areas continue to be tender because they have not yet been given time to rest and that is on his negligence, because everything is always on him. He’s the easiest person to blame, the one to single out and be at fault. </p>
<p>Dedue’s words had meaning, he’s certain of it, but his inability to truly categorize his emotions has left him helpless in his own mind. To overthink is his worst companion. Claude bites his bottom lip as he wonders what had gone on inside Alexander’s head. Certainly pain, perhaps he looked to inflict that pain onto someone else so that he wouldn't be the only one hurting. If correct, then that somebody just so happened to be Claude Von Riegan. Well, it worked, and although Claude’s pain did not stem physically, it manifested emotionally instead. </p>
<p>The inside of his home feels stuffy in comparison. Not as broad as the manor, it remains a niche space for a party of one. Silence always roams inside his halls, even now as the heavy drag of his feet vow to silence. Where do his steps carry him exactly? A bed. The aim is his bed, though once he passes by a mirror, he can’t help but gawke at his reflection. His appearance is heinous. Chewed up and spit out, that is the best way he can put it, and literally that is what had happened to him. His previous injuries are still noticeable, lighter in their bruising they still come to shelter his eye. The tips of his fingers come to touch the minor swell, pressing lightly against it to feel the plumpness of his lid and finds that it is still tender. There are bruises elsewhere too, each one comprising various sizes and shapes. Every edge is irregular, and the colors of some are more pigmented than others.  It tells him that the intent behind each blemish is different: one for desperation, hunger, power, the list goes on, endless. </p>
<p>There’s still much he cannot account for, like the sharpness of teeth, how soon they turned to sharp peaks against his flesh, their sharpness gone just as quick. His strength is another thing that confounds him, nevertheless, he is too frazzled to piece it all together. </p>
<p>The press of his hand moves downwards then, over the sensitive spots, feeling over the teeth marks that never got too deep. Claude wonders how long these markings will last, and then wonders on which ways to hide them from the public. In private, however, he will not hide their existence. He will spend many a night thinking about how Alexander’s mouth had laid on his skin, so boastful and hungry. Now that mouth will starve without him and Claude will count the days leading up to it. The fading of bruises Alexander’s left behind will mark the passage of days until starvation inevitably takes him. </p>
<p>A fitting end for a man such as that.</p>
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<p>Many mornings had passed, without work the days felt slow, and without company his nights felt just as dull. When this particular morning came, he did not attend work as per the clinic’s concessus. Deemed far too dangerous to return to daily activities, at least, in regards to home visitations. For the time being he is accommodating to not having a full schedule. It’s bizarre really, to not be tired at this hour from walking miles. By not working he feels lacking in his responsibilities, thinks of all those who need a hand, of the people who are desperate and struggling with no way of seeking out help. Each day that he lounges around people’s health worsens, and the longer it drags out the less he’ll be able to do. It's hard when it comes to balancing his own health versus the health of others, but he has to learn to do it before he burns himself out completely.</p>
<p>What's always helped him is that he’s never been an overly emotional man. Never gets too invested, tries to not get too invested. Most of his patients lead difficult lives and deal with issues outside of his range like finances and housing, things that in turn contribute to the downfall of their health. If they can’t afford food they cannot eat, if they cannot eat they become malnourished and too weak to function, eventually leading to death. That being said, most issues have to do with housing conditions: lack of plumbing, mold, and paint chips can compromise anyone’s health. If they live in a bad area they may turn to crime, or worse, fall as a victim of one by getting robbed, beaten or killed. </p>
<p>His hands are tied when it comes to these situations and it stresses him vehemently when there’s nothing he can do. Times are hard for everyone. The ones who are better off are those who are blissfully unaware. At times he wishes to be free from the burden of knowledge, but that is no easy feat for a man with an obsessive drive for information. </p>
<p>Claude pinches the center of his brow, stitching the skin closed with his nails. He breathes out, deflating the pressure in his lungs as he does. </p>
<p>“You haven’t touched your coffee.” A gentle voice ushers from his side, reminding him of his forgetfulness regarding a hot beverage. Then, a pressure settles on his forearm, fingers stretched thin over his sleeve. The mayhem of his active mind finds rest with the comforting touch. </p>
<p>Claude lowers his hand in wonderful defeat. His fingers coming to the side of the cup, judging the warmth that exudes onto his fingers. Less heated than when it first arrived at their table. He clenches his hand around the cup decidedly, but still hasn’t committed to taking a drink just yet. “Just waiting for it to cool down is all.”</p>
<p>A small smile graces his lips when he feels Marianne lay claim on his hand. Her fingers weaving into the meat of his palm unhurriedly. He can always trust that she won’t pry too much into his head, just questioning enough to make sure that he’s fine. </p>
<p>He looks towards the street and sees how packed it is, more so than usual. With the height of the murders everyone has taken to travelling during daytime. Nighttime in comparison, is much more isolated now. As he continues to watch the bustle of the streets, packed with pedestrians crowding their tables, he sees the familiar blue of a driver. His hand closes around Marianne’s, a reaction upon locking eyes with Caspar. The driver waves enthusiastically, and soon after, makes a spot for himself to illegally park on.</p>
<p>“I’ve been wonderin’ where ye all hav’ hopped to, haven't seen the lot of ya’ in days!” Caspar says as he walks up to Claude. The rough match of his hand is strict on Claude’s shoulder, inflicting him pain in the process. He’s still sensitive from the beating he had undergone, all thanks to Caspar's definition of a fun evening. Visibly Claude winces and hikes his shoulders up at the sting. They all took notice, but of course Caspar was the only one who vocalized anything on behalf of it. “Oi, ya okay there doc?” He asks leaning down, getting a glimpse of the faded bruise and expression of irritation on his face. There is no comment to be made on anything from the chin down since he’s got it covered with something snug and warm fitting around his neck.</p>
<p>“Oh, I see wha’ happened! Ya’ got into a bit of a tussle, aha!” He excitedly says as he punches the air. A two hit combo, right hand punching an invisible enemy in the gut. “That had ta’ get yer blood pumpin’.” And just how is Caspar so enthusiastic in the height of morning? Claude ponders this as the other male pulls out a seat. Upon sitting, Caspar makes a full grab at Claude’s coffee cup and drinks it all in one swoop. Setting the cup down he gives a thumbs up to rate its deliciousness. </p>
<p>“Nothin’ like a good ol’ fashioned fight ta get yer juices flowin’.” Just what juices could he be hintingto? Actually, it doesn’t matter, Claude doesn’t want to know.</p>
<p>“Caspar...” Claude calls his name out exasperatedly. “If you wanted coffee you need only ask, I would have gladly purchased one for you. There’s no need for you to take my cup.” </p>
<p>Marianne withdraws her hand from Claude’s, and uses it to hide her chuckle from the world. Although it could not be seen, it could be heard. Claude imagines how her smile looks like now, imagining it brings a fond expression to his face.</p>
<p>Caspar wafts his hand in front of his face. “I can smell the shite from yer words ‘ere man.” Quite the poet this man makes. “Ya wouldn’t have done it gladly, sum other time, yeah, probably, but today? Hell, ya don’t even look glad ta see me.” The driver leans back on his chair, and as he does, stretches his arm over Marianne’s seat, which earns him a raised brow from the blue lady herself. “What’s wrong sweet tooth? Ya have an argument with yer sweet lil lollipop?” Caspar’s sugar coated question does not spare Claude from embarrassment.</p>
<p>“Sweet lil lollipop?” Mercedes reiterates, words come out in a slow draw. Her brows pinch together until she gets a moment of clarity. An audible gasp, she sounds shocked, “Are you seeing someone?” She turns to Claude to ask, barely containing her giddiness.</p>
<p>“N-no.” Damn he stammered, that slip-up will work against him somehow. “Caspar here likes to spread gossip is all.” In all honesty, he really wasn’t seeing anyone in that sense.  </p>
<p>“Gossip!?” Caspar nearly busts Claude’s eardrum with his shout. Though, Claude thinks he’s won their little spat when he sees Caspar pick up his chair. He places his hopes on him moving to another table, somewhere far, but his horror only worsens when Caspar cozies on up next to Mercedes. </p>
<p>“Listen ‘ere miss, Caspar Von Bergliez doesn’t gossip—“</p>
<p>Claude interrupts, “Mercedes do not entertain the rambles of-“</p>
<p>Caspar leaves Claude with no room to speak, glaring back at him to tell him to, “Shut yer trap.” He looks back at Mercedes, now with a whole nother expression.</p>
<p>“This man ‘ere was sweet talkin’ one of the manor siblings, Alexander is his name, me thinks.” The driver is not a subtle person, even when he tries to be. Claude appreciates the effort it took for Caspar to lower his voice, but he can still hear him spinning his tales.</p>
<p>Mercedes exchanges a look with Marianne, one of absolute scandal. Claude does not miss the way in which her eyes spread in surprise, the color blue sparkling with interest at the promise of gossip. Caspar continues with his (exaggerated) tale as the girls find worth in his cheap words.</p>
<p>“Ya’ should of seen how he was actin’ in the carriage. If I wouldn’t have known he be a doctor I would have thought he was a-.” He brings up his hand to the corner of his lip, obscuring the folds of his mouth to conceal his word spill. The  hand acts as a barrier, something not meant for Claude's ears to discover. “-Common sloozy.” When Caspar finishes, his words make Claude choke on his spit, inducing a spurt of coughs. </p>
<p>Claude’s reaction comes second to Marianne's. She covers her mouth with her hands as if she’s been caught telling a secret. Despite that, she was too slow to shield her gasp from neighboring ears. </p>
<p>Mercedes on the other hand, doesn’t seem as bothered. She handles this spill of tea as she would any other piece of information, with civility and grace. “Ah, that actually makes a lot of sense.” She takes a sip of her drink, her pinky flexing out of the handle. </p>
<p>In between coughs, he asks, “Wait, what makes sense?” He would like to know what exactly about this conversation makes sense, because to him, it all sounds like tall tales fabricated by tabloids. He should know, because he is the subject of whom they speak.</p>
<p>Mercedes sets down her cup over a tiny plate and crosses her arms above the table when she leans forward. Her concentration with Claude is impressive seeing as she never blinked. She’s studying him, gauging his reaction before commenting on her ideas. “Well, I have witnessed you turn down numerous women during our shifts, and I've always interpreted that to you wanting to preserve your professionalism.” A brief pause to smack Caspar's hand away from her nearing cup. Though shortly after she continues with her train of thought. “Though, knowing now of your <em> fondness </em>towards the same sex, it places things into perspective for me.” Her smile is kind, kinder than he expected it to be.</p>
<p>In all honesty, Claude’s never placed too much care on the appearance of his interests, but many people do, so he never voices his preferences aloud. It is no one’s business but his own. </p>
<p>Alexander is attractive but never someone he considered for a long term relationship. They nearly shared a kiss, and truth be told, that not knowing how Alexander’s lips feel continues to pester him. Pester because he can think of no better word. Pester because that’s how Alexander made him out to be. To this point Claude still cannot answer why he tried to kiss him, he just did it. Something, or someone, told him to and he didn’t fight it. Does he regret it? No. Does he regret what came after? Yes. his affections (if misplaced) were taken advantage of morbidly. Alexander probably blames him. Sees him as the cause considering he was the distraction.</p>
<p>Love hurts, but what he has to offer isn’t love, just interest. </p>
<p>Claude’s head goes back into the conversation once he hears Caspar speak again. He notices that they were looking at him, most specifically, the scarf around his neck. “I don’t kno’ the nature of their relationship but me guess is he wanted ta’ experience a bite for himself.'' Caspar grinned when Claude went red in the face. </p>
<p>A blush is no admission of guilt, it is just a bodily response, he convinces himself.</p>
<p> “Feeling quite chipper at my expense I see.” Claude grumbles as he sweeps back the longer ends of his hair. Over time it’s become a tick of his. A thing to do while he says nothing. Gestures can be just as expressive and his favorite just happens to be fiddling with his hair. “I should make you pay for your own drink for all the trouble you’re causing me.” He tries to play it off casual but can’t seem to pull it off. The arching of his brow is too tight, the movement of his hand too nervous.</p>
<p>“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” Marianne asks. A question to introduce another question; her perfect little way of doing things. He knows that answering said question will dig him a deep hole, and not answering will only deepen it. </p>
<p>“Go ahead, Marianne.” He makes himself sound more inviting by adopting an enthusiastic tone. </p>
<p>Her fingers travel to the edge of the table. The gentle taps of her fingers lightly bounce and generate no sound for the ears. She stares at him with eyes so honest that he feels like a liar without having even said a thing. Such vulnerability is something he has not yet learned to mimic. “The day you left early from work… did you... leave to see him?” She casts her gaze downwards towards Claude’s hands. Marianne is no pushover, she’s just mindful of which situations demand assertiveness from her. </p>
<p>Seconds pass since she last asked her question. Marianne will not allow her words to turn cold, so she repeats herself, albeit, with a few alterations. “Did you see Alexander?” She looks up at Claude with a sense of sternness in her stare. She expects him to set his jokes aside because what she wants is truthfulness, something he’s unable to please her with thus far.</p>
<p>“No.” Is the answer that leaves him. A blatant lie. His stare shares the same intensity as hers. Gaze remains fixated on her, taking all her imperfections as they are and deferring the rest. “I haven’t seen him since Caspar placed our lives in danger, dropping us off in the middle of god knows where.” By dropping Caspar’s name, he leaves an opening for the conversation to be derailed, making him no longer the focus. He expects Caspar to interject some way with his hijinks, but he doesn’t. Is silence Caspar’s way of accepting culpability?</p>
<p>Claude brings his fingers together, springing forth a surface for him to rest his chin upon. “Those miscreants must have given him quite the spook.” The flexion of his voice changes. Flimsy in the way it sounds, though, he is not too preoccupied about the possibility of being called out on his lie because he’s confident in his ability.</p>
<p>Mercedes throws a disappointed look at Caspar, her mouth mildly upset at knowing that he had played a part in the misfortune of a coworker. She shakes her head in disapproval, and for a holy woman, she judges most vehemently. “Caspar, shame on you!” </p>
<p>The bait is taken by Mercedes but Caspar cuts the lure with a simple “Bah!” He dismisses Claude’s whole argument by waving his hand carelessly. “That piece of shite is taller than ya’ be by a mile. I sooner believe that yer the one who scrammed with a tail between yer legs before him.” Caspar slouches on the chair. His legs stretch outwards taking as much space as possible, left leg hitting one of Claude’s purposely. It doesn’t hurt. </p>
<p>“I’d say he ditched ya’ cause he be embarrassed seein’ that ya’ couldn’t hold yer own in a scrap.” Not knowing how to read the mood or when to shut up, Caspar continues, prodding his foot with mild entertainment. Two grown men playing footsies beneath the table, men of class.</p>
<p>“But fuck him anyways, guys a major cunt. I hate him.” Just then Caspar hooks his foot behind one of the legs of Claude’s chair and pulls him closer. Claude’s seat begins to skid on the concrete, the sound of the pegs stuttering is unpleasant and loud, but not louder than the boisterous background of the city. The chair shakes and Claude has to grab onto its sides to keep him from tethering off. Eventually, the screeching comes to a halt. Claude gets close enough that Caspar is able to reel his arm over Claude’s shoulder, pushing both their heads together. </p>
<p>“If I ever see the bastard I’ll make sure ta’ return the favor for ya’.” Caspar says confidently. His bright blue eyes shine with such belief in them that the disbelief within Claude’s eyes begins to untangle. It makes his breath stop in surprise, knowing that someone would take up such an impossible task. It fills Claude with laughter, but the intensity is mild enough that it does not bolster over. </p>
<p>“You think you can beat him in a fight?” Claude asks with a grin. The thought of the altercation is hilarious to him. Alexander is a man that beats them both in height, so there is already an advantage in that, and to add to that, Alexander’s strength places Caspar at a disadvantage. He has to know that his arms are half the size of Alexander’s, right? Nevertheless, it’s fun to imagine.</p>
<p>“You can bet that fancy diploma of yers that I can!” Under such positivity Claude can't help but laugh to the extent of tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He has to create some distance to place his hands on his stomach before he cramps up. The hilarity of it all is too much for Claude to handle at this given time. He tries to be mindful at how ridiculing his laugh is but fails very early on to actually do anything about it. The sides of his face are moistened with tears, happy tears, as elation continues to spill out of him by mouthfuls.</p>
<p>“Aye what’s so funny?” Goodness, Caspar doesn’t seem to know, which only heightens Claude’s amusement. He begins to wipe the tears with the back of his hand. The laughter originating from his gut begins to die out, the sound stifling as he regains his modest composure. Claude clears his throat, adjusting the scarf that surrounds him as if that might solve anything. Busy hands, one of his tells. </p>
<p>He feels eyes on him, more inspective than previous times. From his peripheral he spots Mercedes squinting at him. His guess is that something must have caught her eye. Could it have been a glimpse of a fading bruise? A snippet from a night that felt so distant, and yet, during moments of loneliness he can still feel the sensations re-emerge, leaving him weak kneed and wanting. In this moment, he cannot be wanting, cannot afford to immerse himself in brisk memories. At present, he is under the judgement of others, one move out of character and they’ll eat him alive -not like vampires- but as a mob feverishly hungry. </p>
<p>“Oh nothing.” He answers sweetly. And as he does, he aligns a lock of his brown hair alongside the cartilage of his ear, allowing his fingers to roam further down the curve, past his mandible and over the scarf of his neck. “Just thinking about you beating him up is all.” He smiles at Caspar, closes his eyes so that they would not give his lie away, “I would love to witness your victory first hand.” No one else says anything, so it falls to him to keep the conversation going. “It’d make such a wonderful sight, please do let me know when it takes place.”</p>
<p>He does not feel as watched when Mercedes meddles with her spoiled comments. She tells them in a way that sounds soft, but he knows more than anyone how deceitful appearances are, and how brutal she can be. Mercedes is one of the few people he would never want to vex, doing so will put his ego in a casket. “And after your silly little squabble we’ll patch you right on up!” She says as she takes a hold of Caspar’s hands, holding them up to the scant trace of sun where she then rubs her thumbs over the swell of his knuckles. They’re scraped and bruised, from roughhousing with the wrong people, or the right people, depending on who he asks.</p>
<p>Claude can tell the exact moment in which Caspar will begin to yell, his adam apple bobs up with the sound, scrambling to let loose and annoy their ears, but it is Marianne who mutes him with an unrelated statement of her own. “Claude if I didn’t know any better I would have said you’re hiding love bites.” </p>
<p>How did the conversation pivot back to this, and by Marianne of all people? He assumed they were over the topic, but it seems to take precedence once again. He lifts the fabric closer to his chin, guilty as it may seem to cover any peccable spots that he might have missed. “But you do know better Marianne.” If anything, he can always blame it on the chillier climate. </p>
<p>“I do.” She responds as her hands head beneath the table. His guess is for them to settle on her thighs as they often do in leisure. Claude leaves the conversation at that, best to not draw any more attention to the topic. </p>
<p>He calls for the waiter with a raise of the hand, curling his fingers over as if drawing the person near. Best course of action is to pay and leave. That way he can disappear before they are inclined to ask the how's and whos. This is what he does best after all, avoidance of things he does not wish to handle. Simply lets it all accumulate until his only resolution is to run. </p>
<p>“So Claude.” Mercedes calls to him, diverting his attention to her. He swallows, nervous at the possibilities of where things might be headed. “About that research of yours, have you found anything substantial?” His research, ah yes, <em> good </em> . He can talk about that, anything to sidestep the conversation away from the accursed two words: <em> love bites </em>. </p>
<p>“Not at present I’m afraid.” Come to think of it, if he were to reveal any more, then the odd circumstances between Alexander and himself will come into question. He rather avoid reveals that might cause libel. Even if there’s nothing vampiric by nature, the results can be interpreted as a romantic affair shared between two men. A scandal no matter which way it is arranged. </p>
<p>“Oh.” She sounds and looks disappointed, because, of course she is. She loves ghosts, she loves the supernatural, she loves to believe in figments, in the things she cannot physically see. Her faith in the unknown is tremendous, because even now, he knows that she still holds on to hope. “I see your meeting with Alexander yielded no results then. I guess that’s a fortunate thing.”  Claude reflects on her words, he wouldn’t say that there were no results, it’s just that everything that’s happened can be countered with facts. “Have you met his sister? I hear the same rumors circulate her as well, but perhaps that’s all they are, rumors. He’s always been the talk of the town, though it’s good to know that his suspicions turned out to be false.”</p>
<p>Claude has met his sister, but saying so will only lead to more questions, so he declines to answer. “Hmm, you could also be lying.” She taps her cheek with her forefinger, feigning to think more words. “He could have bitten you, turned you! And now you turn on your own kind because he is your master!” Such dramatics, she could really be one for the stage instead of a nurse</p>
<p>“Mercedes, you shouldn’t speak your nonsense so loudly.” Marianne motions her hand down, as if conveying to lower the volume. She turns her head to the side and finds people staring back at her, many people, in fact. They seem to have drawn too much attention. </p>
<p>“Oh, I'm only reiterating what I read in one of Claude’s books.” She shrugs it off like nothing. </p>
<p>Even with all eyes on them he still finds the situation to be humorous. Claude has never been a stranger to receiving odd looks as it had been a common occurrence since childhood. No matter where the border lies, people on either side still have their lingering suspicions against those who look different.  Marianne and Caspar get the same treatment, if only for the bright hue of their hair. Even if Marianne is not comfortable being perceived, she continues with life, tunely aware of how her presence is taken in by the surroundings. Where she wishes to disturb very little, Caspar wants the exact opposite. Different personalities for every varying shade of blue. </p>
<p>“Ah yes, I do recall that line from somewhere. Quite the magnificent mind you have for recollecting.” No wonder she’s such an excellent aide, her memory is immaculate.</p>
<p>The waiter comes moments after his presence was requested, and suddenly, everyone that surrounds them returns to their civil duties. Claude asks for the bill, cutting his time, and everyone else’s, short. There’s too many pitfalls here, he must avoid them. Pitfalls so deep that if he were to wander into one, he will never be able to reach the surface again. Everyone is sharper than they seem, more observant than they lead on. </p>
<p>Pen marks the total in their transaction. A dark, deeply set circle surrounds the number on the bottom of the receipt. Claude pulls it close, keeping the bill away from everyone’s reach. He takes care of the payment without anyone interjecting. Taking out his wallet, he makes his fingers scarce on the shillings. He leaves enough to cover the bill and some excess for the waiter. They live in tough times so he has to be mindful that not everyone lives as generously as him. It will do well to humble himself, go back to earnest beginnings. </p>
<p>“Keep the change.” He comments as he tucks the money inside the waiter’s shirt pocket. The action is seen as rather rude as judged by the skeptical raise of the server’s brow. However, when pulling out the money, he decides not to comment on Riegan’s over familiarity. </p>
<p>“Sure thing boss!” A pip chirp as ever. The server doesn’t linger for too long, he’s got more tables to attend to, and as far as Claude’s concerned, the waiter’s made his money here.</p>
<p>“You’re leaving so soon?” Questions Marianne, following up with, “You didn’t even drink your coffee.” And not for lack of trying, Caspar just ended up drinking it all.</p>
<p>Getting up from the seat he grabs his coat and drapes it over his forearm. He holds on to it rather than wearing it, for right now, the temperature is mild enough as to not use it. “For the time being, yes, I just recalled that there are things I must do at home.” Another simple lie but it’s not like anyone can call him out on it. “Feel free to stay, no need to cut your enjoyment short just because of one less person.”</p>
<p>He, as he has always been, is not essential. He’s not an integral piece of anyone or anything, just wayward, helplessly floating through time from one point to the next. And thus, he moves toward his next point on par with loneliness. He finds that he’s quite content with that.</p>
<p>“Hop in I’ll give ya’ a ride.” Caspar comments as he sprints to his feet. More energetic he might add, thanks to the caffeine.</p>
<p>“That won’t be necessary.” Claude doesn’t try very hard to convince Caspar because he knows he can’t. Once Caspar has his mind set on something, it’s impossible to push him off the track. His point is further proven once the door to the carriage is pulled open, revealing the cushy seating inside. This chauffeur makes it look so inviting, so tempting.</p>
<p>“Bah! Just hop in I gots ta’ make mah’ ends meet too.” Ends meet - Claude suddenly is not as generous anymore, not when it involves a certain coffee incident.</p>
<p>“I’ve paid for your coffee, as far as I’m concerned my tab with you is settled.” Claude places his foot on the step, all while holding on to the side of the door as he gets inside the carriage.</p>
<p>“WHA’ that wasn’t even mah coffee!”</p>
<p>“Precisely.” Claude promptly proceeds to shut the door behind him. </p>
<p>Caspar didn’t argue with him on that, instead, he got to work. The pace he set for them is slow, giving Claude the leisure of enjoying the sights of the daily bustle. Men hard at work, proud of bearing the sweat on their brows, calling out to the ladies that happen to walk by in clusters. These ladies are quite beautiful, properly fitted with extravagant gowns that only seem to enhance their beauty. All with their small steps venturing out into the world to see what it offers. He cannot offer them the world, but he can offer them a smile even when they don’t look his way.</p>
<p>Suddenly Dorothea appears at his window, pacing herself alongside the carriage. Her face startles him, causes him to fall back on the seat in a panic. His heart feels fast in his chest, thundering so hard against the bones that encase it that it brings him physical pain. He draws in one breath and then let’s it out slowly. Keeps on repeating until his heart settles. It is only when Dorothea waves at him from the other side of the window that Claude scrambles to pull the curtain to a close.</p>
<p>After a minute the carriage stops completely. Nothing remarkable happens from the outside, he still hears the other carriages galloping about as usual. He detects no unusual yelling from the streets, everything proceeds as normal. He cannot hear Caspar, and most importantly, he cannot hear Dorothea. </p>
<p>“Why have we stopped?” He inquires, his voice more uncertain than he’d like. </p>
<p>The answer comes to him when the door opens, revealing Dorothea coming inside the carriage. Rest assured that he is internally screaming when her presence draws closer, getting as close as the width of her skirt permits.</p>
<p>“Greetings doctor.” Dorothea pulls out a fan, and with back and forth motions, allows the air she manipulates to cool her. Her hair is not fashioned in the tight ringlets he’s met her in, now they’re softer, less dependent on the products on the market. Dark, thick and wavy hair, it reminds him of his own.</p>
<p>He leans closer to the driver’s side and allows his voice to carry his question. “Why is she here?” He’s more confused than angry at Caspar’s decision.</p>
<p>“Cause the lady’s a payin’ customer unlike ya’.” At the response he feels her fan at his chest, leading him softly back into his seat. </p>
<p>“You heard the gentleman, I have permission to be here.” She then brings the fan to cover half her face. She winks at Claude, reminiscent of how he winks at anyone with a lack of meaning.</p>
<p>What an odd play of words. Permission granted by one out of the two people who were in the vehicle before Dorothea decided to join them. It is true that Caspar is the owner, but as a person who is also within the vehicle, Claude should have been considered. </p>
<p>“And why specifically here and not one of the many vacant carriages that surround this city?” Is it coincidence? Is it stalking? As far as he’s concerned, Dorothea and him are mere acquaintances, not friends. Their bond is nonexistent, fickle as to not warrant getting into the same carriage. If that were to ever happen, he'd gladly take the charge for accusatory behavior.</p>
<p>Claude rests his hands over his tights. He keeps everything accounted for, close to himself and away from her. A muddled shriek after he’s been struck by the fan. The sting settles over the back of his hand, making the spot red after the point of contact. As a reflex, he moves his hand, shaking it to make the pain go away faster. By the looks of it, getting his hand to move might have been the original intention. He feels her touch on his thigh, her hand replacing his in location. She leans in now, inches intruding upon his personal space. Dorothea looks up at Claude, smiling as she does, smuggling many secrets from within her fitted smile.</p>
<p>“Have I done something to offend? I don’t recall doing anything to attract such disdain from you. I only wish to know summer from your arms, they’d feel so heated as they furl around my figure, but instead your eyes give me winter. Your gaze sends shivers down my spine, freezes my heart and renders me solid.” It reads like a script, and frankly, he’s impressed that she’s able to convey emotions with such dull lines.</p>
<p>“Offend you have not, my dear. I only wish to drift and sway, like a leaf that slowly falls wanting to greet the ground. But you are the winds, stirring me, to destinations I do not wish to be. You postpone the inevitable, you end my peace.” He plays her games, adopts her idioms. His tongue is versatile but not quite as gifted.</p>
<p>“A leaf has many cycles, as per the seasons. You have many temperaments, as per your moods. You’ve declined me once, but shall you do it again, as I grasp onto your petiole?” To accentuate she presses her fingers deeper into the meat of his thighs until it begins to hurt. Ah, he knows what this is all about now.</p>
<p>“I admire your determination but my answer is unchanging.” His answer will continue to be the same. Adamant to go alongside the expression he’s utilizing. He will no longer be an active participant in her game. As short lived as this was, he doesn’t think he has it in him for other rounds.</p>
<p>“Halt the carriage.” He comments as he swings open the door besides him. </p>
<p>“Have ya’ lost yer marbles!? Hell is ya’ doin’?” Caspar yells after his passenger when Claude mounts off. Caspar managed to stop the horses just in time to grant Claude graceful landing.</p>
<p>Claude turns, “Farewell, may the afternoon take kindly to you both.” And promptly shuts the door and walks the rest of the way home. He didn’t want Dorothea to know where he lives. Though, she most likely already knows through Hubert, and by extension, Edelgard. Still, he took precautions on the off chance that she didn’t know his location.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A couple of things happen this chapter, and as usual I will place all potential warnings in the notes section. This week's chapter includes mind control, alcohol consumption, chocking/suffocation.</p><p>You can find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/whorerormovie">twitter</a>, though for now, I hope you enjoy this week's chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Exhausted paces carried him inside, deep within the halls of his complex. The essence is much quieter here as compared to the café that allowed him his patronage. He does not regret his morning. He enjoyed seating on the outskirts of the establishment, attaining what little sun he could, but so terribly does he wish that it had gone differently. The topics discussed triggered memories that he had not explored since the bittersweet avenues of the manor. It is a cloud above his head, so thick and gray that it resembles the ones that tend to hang above him in reality. Miles high, and often, rain inducing. The weather here is always a weepy constant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His feet carry him to a mirror in the hall; he seems to stop in front of these more often now. Engaging with his reflection in ways he couldn’t in the manor, for they were all covered to hide the deep faults within the owner’s selves. Claude could never be that way, could never be as blissfully ignorant as to pretend he had no faults. He has always been so painfully aware of his imperfections. Others had made it known to him all his life. All his shortcomings, things he had no control over, taken apart for spectacle for others to fuel their own self worth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Words do indeed hurt, but reality is often more damning, though not as damning as poison. Poison can venture into many forms: liquid, gas, and it can even be words stringed together in the most terrible of ways. There is power in words, incredible power that he’s used to exploiting. He doesn’t exploit those who are less than fortunate, he goes against those who claim to be more civil thanks to the branding of a certain name. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His name here doesn’t mean anything. It meant much back home, and still, it granted him nothing. In this he relates to the common man, to have to work thrice as hard just to prove his worth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude unveils himself right before his eyes. The scarf slides loose around his neck, so soft as it deforms into a lump at his feet. His bruises are not as evident. They are no longer fresh, they are fading with age. The deep set of color that once filled the outlines are nearly translucent, having faded now to the natural tint of his skin. It is nothing special. The bruises, as all things, must naturally go with time. And the day he returns to being without marks is the day that he will return to being whole again. For it will mean that he has healed from the world biting him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans in to better study himself. He stretches the skin under his fingers, to feel for what continues to hurt and what does not. He is happy to say that his eye has healed externally. There are no visual indicators present to have others believe that he was in a fight, and for that he is thankful. The pain that lingers when he blinks is minor, but as far as he’s concerned, that’s not something to be too troubled about. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude next makes his way to the washroom where he will wash his face and allow the droplets to cling to him. He will not wipe them, instead, he’ll allow their refreshing sensation to cool him. It makes his eyes feel fresh. After a wardrobe change, Claude goes to his room to preoccupy himself with a good book. It is still day so he lounges on his bed with the window open, allowing the spare wind to rouse his curtains to dance alongside the skirmishing sunlight. Claude props his book on his thigh, it is kept upright against his bent leg. He flips the pages lazily, dismissing the last word just as easily as he’d done the first. Chapters become inseparable, the texts before his eyes become endless the more tired his vision gets. The passage he reads is in relation to invitations, and how a vampire must acquire it before entering anyone’s  home. He’s read many reasons as to why this may be, the most humorous one he’s found to date is that they’re trying to be polite, and the most compelling one is, the undead are the embodiment of sin, therefore they must be made welcome. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s difficult to say when he drifted into sleep but it must have been some time ago considering that the streets outside have become so silent. Claude is a light sleeper so it doesn’t take much to get him to wake, this time it is a touch, a mosquito mayhaps, or the movement of his own blouse. He doesn’t place too much importance on the details, he much rather keep his eyes shut, reveling in the feeling of tethering between wakefulness and sleepiness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A tingle of precision across his chest; ruffling the fine hairs on his chest and scrunching the light fabric of his shirt. At first he thinks it’s the wind, denotes it, but that’s just his daft thoughts taking form. Wind is not as solid, not as precise as the shaping of bone. He feels the weight of phalanges abroad the width of his pecs. What feels like skin spread over one of his sensitive buds. He groans, not yet entirely waking, feels his body going slack against this mysterious happening. He feels the pressure forming round his neck, similar to fingers laying at the sides, but it does not clench, it saunters until reaching the underside of his mandible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He huffs when he feels something sharp plunge at his lower lip, tugging it down, stretching the frenulum, revealing his lower gums and teeth. His head is turned, ear slotted against what he distinguishes to be a pair of lips. They move against him, around him, whispers of consumption, of turning him into a feast (he loves feasts) and yet, Claude can’t quite comprehend what would be the danger surrounding that. He opens his eyes partly, still heavy lidded under the night’s mercy. He spots the figment of a shadow figure next to him, molding around him, breathing calmly just as he. Claude is not afraid, but he is beginning to question this reality, quite possibly, this is just a dream. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A familiar wetness engulfs him, raptures his earlobe causing him to sink with the sensation. He thinks of Alexander because he had done the same some days ago. Is this reality or is his imagination getting the best of him? Either way, he calls out his name, “Alexander.” To think that his body would miss his affections that much. He’s been starving for so long that he yearns for a man who merely gives him scraps of attention. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After the name is spoken aloud he is given a strangle. The flow of air that normally flows in and out of him is interrupted, causing it to cease at his chest, to swell untriumphant as he fails to get a breeze out. There’s fingers around his throat, pressing against the sides, slowly seizing the life out of him. Now he feels awake, alert, eyes spreading wide to decipher the being next to him. A shadow, a blur, it moves lazily when it mounts him, the weight concentrated at his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gasps under the ministrations, even more so when the scarce source of light repels heavy shadows, and instead, reveals the dull luster of whitish flesh and hair. Sprinkling white clouds his vision, hair roams just around the edges of his eyes. The length is long and feels so soft when they fluster against his lashes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“E-Edelgard.” He chokes out. She relaxes her hand and he’s able to breathe again, but not freely. She still has her palm weighing in at the front of his throat. “How did you get in?” Whether a dream or not, the possibilities of how she managed to intrude upon his most private space eludes him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Edelgard tips the balance when she leans down. Her mouth ever so close to his. Her lips part, and through that gap, allows his strained breaths to enter her. She breaths him in, his air, body and soul all belong to her in this moment. Everything is interlaced and kept that way by the hand at his throat. His life literally in the mercy of her hand. He should act, but feels his body get too tingly at the idea. Lack of air perhaps? Or is it the lack of circulation that makes him slightly numb. At this point, he’s willing to bet that Edelgard’s presence acts as a sedative.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You gave me permission, do you recall?” Permission, when might that have been? He does not even recall seeing her today before this. Noting the gears in his head turning, Edelgard clamps around his throat, stifling the little progress he’s made. He sighs, his chest relaxes, and Edelgard takes this opportunity to tighten her thighs as his sides. Her knees nestling against his ribs, the ridges being graced by the condyle of said patellae.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He recalls something, a snuffed memory of her arriving at his doorstep and requesting assistance. “Once.” He spoke, his eyes dangerously close to shutting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Once is enough for me.” She reveals as she mildly eases the restrictions on his throat. Claude likes choking, but only when coupled with a bit of action. This is not the action he’s accustomed to, too much talking and not enough frolicking inside the heat of one another. Here bodies don’t sing, here the bodies are muted by the stilling silence of death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude takes what little air he can before she changes her mind. She talks in the interim, so calm and true, speaking from her heart, and just when he was beginning to doubt she had one. “I wonder how you will taste upon my tongue. Will you be a wretched thing that deserves to be spat out, left to rot out in the open for the crows to pick apart? I find myself too greedy for that. Even if what lies beyond your beauty is disgusting, I will not waste you. I will store you in crystal, preserve you, wait for your taste to ferment and make you intoxicating to me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She squeezes his neck, her grip unforgiving. How fortunate for him that her monologue is nearly over. “The last thing you will feel while alive is my mouth as I devour you, lavish you. I’m counting down the hours for when I’ll get to have you. You will be exquisite, well worth the wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this point, Claude struggles to breathe. He gasps, lowkey desperate in his attempts to breathe. “I’ve won you,” she adds as she snags pieces of his consciousness. It's hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to exist beneath her presence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Is his only reply. He brings his hands to her hips, digs his fingers into her skirt and he shakes. Shakes because his lungs are getting desperate. A buzz under his skin, he vibrates, his groaning so immersive that it draws her in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You will go to the manor tomorrow.” Oh, the highly advertised party is tomorrow? He has no intention of being present. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” He chokes out again. His vision fading at the edges, soon everything will be black.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” She chokes him harder. “You will do as I say, you will attend the party.” There goes that voice, getting inside his head again, forcing him to comply. Physically he’s unable to say the word no, his lips just do not know how to mold around the two letters. All he thinks about is yes, the only word he knows suddenly is yes. Any refusal he’s ever said before does not matter now. All that matters is doing what Edelgard wants, because he wants what she wants. Yes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he will attend</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’s much more willing to listen to reason when he’s being suffocated, when he’s so dizzy that anything anyone tells him sounds sane.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You will be there and you will hide your face. I do not want my brother to steal you away from me, he’s had his turn.” An order that he will carry out. He’d let her know but he passes out before the words get to leave his lips. He falls, falls and falls, his body so light as it slips into his subconscious. Everything fades to black, he feels nothing except mercy.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>The following day that is to come is a mystery that needs to unfold. Uncertain as to what spurs his attendance, he just knows that he must. He was once so adamant in not participating, and now, he has no clue as to why he’s going. Every time he tries to convey a memory or thought in relation to the matter, his mind conjures the faintest of faces. A vague shape, with the only remarkable feature being long locks of white hair flowing over him. He recalls a voice and for some reason he cannot put a name to it, cannot link it to a person or memory, but he will abide by it. He is bound to it. And so he is here, in the most peculiar of accessory shops. Tucked in the corner of a busy street, cramped and modeled after oversea influences. He notes a lot of gold with the makings, and jewels that are not easily obtainable in this side of the world. There are many things that catch his eyes, from broachs to earrings, whimsical rings and statement pieces that compliment the neckline with exuberant displays of jewels. Nothing here feels of this world to him. Every piece of this collection contributes to a fantasy. This store is tucked away with the flow of time. He is dazzled by this uniqueness, by the sections commemorating an artistic vision never before experienced on this side of the continent. To Claude everything within these four walls is a fantasy of how the world could be if the inhabitants were less restricted with their creativity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The band is made of Zircon.” A closely made comment. One of the employees had gathered behind him at some given time, watching him display his curio in silence. At first glance she is quite the unusual woman, pink hair combined with pink eyes, all matching the blush of her cheeks, cosmetics he’s sure. “I overlaid it with gold to create the tree you see before you, and then added rhinestones in place for the leaves. It was a lot of hard work y’know.” She plucks the ring from his fingers and tries it on herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess it’s true what they say, hard work does pay off.” She says, the fluctuations of her words all too happy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On that we agree.” Claude comments as he begins to walk elsewhere, hands placed on his back as he continues to survey the store’s merchandise. A whistle rings from his lips, the tune it carries out is lively, lively enough for the employee to coordinate her steps to. It’s not exactly a dance, there’s nothing fancy about her movements, but she is carrying the rhythm and adds more than a sway of her hips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m attending a masquerade tonight and I seem to be a bit ill prepared. Do you by chance have any masks in stock?” His question cuts her dance short and she sighs in displeasure. Claude can hear her feet drag underneath her skirts, rolling her eyes as she comes to pass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh, way to cut my fun short.” She whines when she reaches the counter. The nameless woman goes behind it and begins to rearrange a lot of things. He hears lots of shuffling and things falling, sounds of breakage, and thereafter dissatisfied groans and phrases not deemed proper by a lady of her caliber. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She comes back up holding a wide white box. Exteriorly it is lackluster, but he supposes that what’s inside will pique his interest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had a gentleman request this some time ago.” She opens the box to reveal a mask cushioned by white decorative paper. Only one color is used and it is yellow. Also worth a mention is that different variations of the color are used, each one found within its gradient. The portion that covers the nose and the surrounding areas of the eyes are sleek and reflective. The openings of the eyes, the outlines of where the nose lies, and the outside borders are embroidered with gold detailing. Gold painted leaves frame the forehead, each leaf precariously placed as if resembling a circlet, and from behind the leaves emerge a pair of deer horns, wax looking in their texture. A call to nature, every addition to this mask is deliberate, even the gold plated pinecones surmounted in between the leaves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He has yet to come and collect it, or pay, for that matter.” She speaks casually, even when breaking the bond between buyer and purveyor. “It’s yours if you’re willing to pay the right price.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which is?” Something tells him it’s going to be quite costly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Five pounds.” He was right to be afraid, this woman is mad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Three pounds.” Claude haggles. “I imagine this gentleman would be quite upset if he were to return and not find his item of choice.” A sensible point. “And if I were to encounter said man at this masquerade then I suppose that will spell a bit of  trouble for me as well, hm? I’d say dropping the price is conceivable for the presumed inconvenience, wouldn't you agree. “  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you don’t want trouble then don’t buy it.” The seller starts to pack the mask away. “But you’ll be in more trouble if you show up to a masquerade with no mask. Like who does that? Do you want to be the guy that does? I know I wouldn’t. Besides, your poor planning is not my emergency. I doubt you’ll find another in such short notice, they’re not exactly on demand. As far as I’m concerned, I’m the one doing you a favor, not the other way around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn she drives a hard bargain and she knows it too. That smirk of hers comedically mocks him, her mouth curving like a mischievous cat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Four pounds.” He holds up the number four with his fingers. This is a losing fight, like all his encounters with the women here.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In return she holds up the number five with her fingers. “Everything I do is custom made, like I said, I put a lot of hard work in.” She whistles afterwards, looking at her nails, at how perfect they are, at how perfect those fingers that connect to them are. They are not the hands of someone who does house work, or tends to the fields, or someone who does hard labor. They are soft, nails long and roundly filed, shiny, as if coated with something. They are the hands of an upper class woman. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude just lays the pounds on the table, the full amount, and that of course, makes her </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> happy. She winks at him, smacking her palm over the coins to slide them to her, and with her other palm, pushes the box towards Claude’s direction. “Pleasure doing business with you, generous gentleman.” He’s been had, he knows it with full confidence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Likewise milady.” He takes the box in his hands and begins to make his leave. It is much heavier than originally anticipated but he can make the trip. A few steps from the door she calls to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This party you’re headed to, is it hosted by Lady Edelgard?” He takes seconds to answer and decides that honesty is best suited for this strange woman. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He answers her with a nod. She in turn, shakes her head at him. “For what it’s worth, don’t.” And she frowns for the first time. Unsettling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opens and in comes another patron. A man quite tall and sporting half of his violet hair behind his pointed shoulders. “Evening Hilda, I’ve come to retrieve my mask.” He announces as he prances through the door, more majestic than his body is able to contain. Claude sidesteps to get out of his way, to avoid suspicion seeing as he’s carrying this gentlemen’s goods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So hilda is her name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ooooh, about that…” At the sound of Hilda’s voice Claude dashes his way through the door with the box in tow.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The transition between day and night went smoothly. Seemingly, when he stepped out of his carriage, it had been the same as when he stepped out of the shop. A feeling of evasion accompanies both situations, he does not wish to be caught by any familiar faces, though regrettably, they will see him. At this point in the evening, he is a transformed man. Actually, no longer a man, he is what he calls, a golden deer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is no easy thing to miss when a deer is caught roaming outside a forest’s boundaries. A deer is out of place, and because it is so unusual, people gather round, each one with their own underlying intentions. This deer is not interested in anyone, or anything, he just has to get through this night. Endure it. A purpose brings him here, and he is attached to this place until he completes it. The sensation of autonomy here is false, physically, he is unable to leave. Unable to steer his feet back into the carriage and go back home, home to his country, far, far away from this place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He departs from the driver, someone other than Caspar, for he fears his loose tongue might give away much during this trip. Claude walks in silence to the entrance door, the sound of his steps the only thing creating noise as he walks through the tall grass. There’s people outside, conversing and clutching their crimson drinks tightly, taking part in more intimate conversations. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their bodies resemble no one that he knows, then again, the outlines of these shapes are vastly concealed by the wear of dresses and suits. Each garment tailored to eccentric perfection, creating new forms out of these bodies, new richer beings. He realizes that he’s severely underdressed for this affair, with his combination brown suit, yellow vest and white dress shirt. He has his tie underneath, and where he would normally utilize his pocket watch as decorum, he now has a white poppy inside his pocket to replace it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strange eyes are upon him, and whispers come about from said stranger’s lips. A woman licks her lips as he passes, then settles to occupy her mouth around the curvature of a wine glass. This gesture only quickened his pace to the inside of the manor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inside is warmer. The collection of bodies have raised the temperatures inside by a number of degrees. The scent in the air is heavy with candles as they are hung in multiple cases to brighten up the rooms. The furniture had been rearranged since the last time he’d visited, allowing more space for guests to roam. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude looks around and recognizes no one, and he guesses that the same could be said for him since no one had approached him. So, inconspicuously, he moves through the crowd, excusing himself in polite ways when he has to squeeze through bodies. He follows the sound of music. Each note from a string lures him closer to the explosion of sound and comes to find that it originates from a string quartet. The musicians play from their seated positions, giving life to the dancers, literally maneuvering them like puppets on strings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone in the room dances with a pair. Harmonized synchrony from every dancer with not a step out of place. He would be moved by the beauty of the waltz if it weren’t for the glances directed at him. They were discreet, only doing so when the dance required a turn. He felt the dancers eyes make contact with him. Ambiguous— he knows not what these eyes entail for the rest is veiled behind decorative masks. An expression involves more than just eyes, it’s about how the brows move, adding to the expression. As well as the crinkles that come with the pinching of skin, and the flaring of nostrils for the more intense moments. Everything comes together in a process, resulting in a conclusive piece. Remove a step from said process and it remains incomplete. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>These masks take away so much from a person’s identity. He cannot read them, cannot distinguish the intentions behind each of these stares. All he knows is that it makes him uncomfortable. To make it stop, he shuffles back, heading away from the big hall and its dancers. He has the option of going outside, the spacious room has an opening that leads to a patio space, but he spots a tuft of long white hair in the distance and deters himself from doing so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re finally here.” A voice burrows in his  ear. The heat of lips pressing alongside the curve of his ear, whispering to him sweet welcomes. A press to his spine, he feels a hand moving deeper into the curve of his vertebrae, forcing his pace forward an inch or two. The clicking of heels to match his speed, a gist of brown ringlets kept in an up-do. It’s Dorothea. Even when sporting a mask, he recognizes her signature painted lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dust on her cheeks seems like a light pigment when mixed with the paleness of her flesh. He does not find relaxation with her touch, even as she hands him a glass of liquor, fizzing as it nearly tips over the glass.  He’s enraptured by how loosely her fingers slot around the holder, making the glass nearly slip from her graces and onto him. Carefully, he takes the drink from her hand, and secures it with bolder fingers. With newfound vacancy upon her hands, she’s all too eager to find ways to occupy them, choosing to ravel them around Claude’s bicep. Her fingers flex around the muscle, supporting her weight as she draws closer. The straps of her red dress reach bilaterally upon her shoulders, puffy sleeves sewn in place and reaching down to her elbows. From the elbows down, the sleeves are fitted tight, presenting the slimness of her forearm. The skirts of her dress hang in layers managing to add volume, and as she stands she wears only one color, dark red. Even the bow tied to her lower back is red, the detailing sewn into the bow itself just a lighter shade. In terms of decoration the dress lacks many; quite plain considering her extravagant taste. He considers this a conservative approach seeing that her high collar covers her neck, and that the red velvet gloves she adorns eclipses her hue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude takes a swig of the drink. He allows the taste to dictate his mood, at first, it lathers mild across his tongue, but then it transitions to sweetness, and then comes the scratchiness at his throat. “You were expecting me? Even after I said I wouldn’t come?” He didn’t make eye contact with her, he rather settle his gaze to the bottom of his glass. Round and round the drink swirls, sucking him in deeper into its delights. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said you weren’t coming? Then I’m curious as to why you are here. Your words must be very fickle, just like every other man’s.” Dorothea takes a gander at the dancers, some seem to leave the floor while others are just getting on, desperate to get their action.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you much of a dancer?” She asks, her voice hard to hear over the cello. “I tend to favor singing over dancing, so I must admit that I’m not as talented when it comes to that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude finishes the rest of his drink, timing the gulps to the raising tempo. “Is this your way of asking me to dance, milady?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothea smiles. Her lips spread wider when a server passes with a tray of drinks. She takes a wine glass, strangely enough the glass is stained. The content inside appears clumpy like clotted blood, but Claude figures that it must be something else. A juice, perhaps made of beets, cut and added to provide texture. She takes her drink, gulping half of the glass down without breaking contact. Claude notices that she doesn’t chew, meaning, she was able to swallow without issue. If her lips were red before, well, they’re redder now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you wish to flatter yourself with the idea, sure, I’ll let you coexist with your little delusion.” With her finger she points to someone in the crowd. Wineglass swirling with the minor movement, the drink, it never comes close to spilling over her matching dress. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude looks to see who is at the other end of her point. He spots an immobile man, leaning against an adjacent wall with his arms crossed. His suit is purple, the tail coat extending just a short way below the knee. The fabric is thick, framing that man to be bigger than he is, but Claude can tell that he is lanky when he spots the gap between the flank and the coat. The mask this person wears resembles a peacock, its nose projects much like the beak would. It’s painted white with a silver line dictating the borders of the beak. Feathers from the animal protrude from the edges of the forehead, and where these feathers have been stuck, so have black painted roses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Though I'd wager that that gentleman there might make you an offer.” And right on cue the man moves (a tad bit too aggressively for Claude’s liking). With his potency he wards the dancers, no pair gets too close, allowing him passage through the dance floor with ease. The closer this anonymous figure gets, the more things get revealed to him, such as, the color of his hair. Violet— smooth hair slicked back behind the ears and braided into a bun that resembles a rose. Each streak of hair is carefully manipulated to give it shape. Still life is what the art world would call it, and right they were for creating such a term. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then it hits Claude: tall figure, purple hair, immaculate presentation —this is the fellow from the shop, his mask’s commissioner. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Uh oh.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Claude takes a step back, it is instinct that makes his movements happen, but Dorothea deters more than one step from happening.  “The best of evenings to you both.” The man greets, crossing his right arm over his chest as he partly bows. Once the man straightens his back he comes to find Claude bowing his head, and Dorothea, pinching the side of her skirts to lift, to make the bend of her knees easier to do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dance behind them is still ongoing, charismatic as ever, as the synchrony of footsteps match with their pace in words. “May I have this dance?” The hand is stretched outward, right between Claude and Dorothea, making it unclear as to who the person he is asking is. Perhaps he asks the both of them and is relying on the luck of the draw. Well then, this time around, he shall let Dorothea take the bait. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This lovely gentleman is more than eager to take you up on that offer.” Dorothea comments as she guides Claude’s hand to the stranger’s. At the moment of contact, the man seizes his hand, fingers clutching tight around his. He was slow to the draw, and so, this is his consequence. Dorothea’s grip eases on him, allowing him to slip away completely into the guidance of another male. Too dumbfounded to speak, Claude does little else but look at Dorothea with surprise when he is taken away. She in turn takes a drink, but even so, the dirtied bits of glass cannot hide the smirk she adorns. </span>
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